


I will be rocks, I will be water (I will leave this to my daughter)

by dwellingondreams



Series: Rocks and Water [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Cheating, Childbirth, Consensual Underage Sex, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, Forced Marriage, Miscarriage, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, Postpartum Depression, Pregnancy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Slow Burn, Underage Sex, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: Petyr takes advantage of Catelyn's grief over Brandon's unfaithfulness to manipulate her into bed. In the aftermath, two marriages are drastically changed, and the aftereffects are felt by many. (In which Catelyn Tully is forced to marry Jon Arryn to preserve what's left of her reputation, and in the wake of Brandon's death, Lysa Tully marries Eddard Stark instead).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place from about 264 AC to 298 AC, up to the point of King Robert's visit to Winterfell. A sequel is being planned.

When her betrothal to Brandon Stark was announced, Catelyn Tully was so happy she half-convinced herself she was dreaming. 

Father threw a magnificent feast to celebrate, and she spent half the evening in what felt like a daze, imagining what was to come; her life as lady of Winterfell, wife to one of the most handsome men in the realm, mother of their children. 

She imagined children with Brandon’s wild dark hair and her bright blue eyes, children who would fall asleep to the sound of her singing, the way her late mother had once sang to her, and children who would adore their father as much as she did, climbing into his lap and laying their heads on his strong chest in front of the fire.

She sat at a place of honor at the table and spun in the arms of many men and boys, including her father and Uncle Brynden and young Petyr, who was silent and sullen until she took his hands in her own as they danced. He brightened then, and even laughed at something she said, for Catelyn was far giddier than usual. 

He was disappointed when the dance had ended, but Catelyn just smiled and pecked him on the cheek; he was only eight, after all, and had been like another younger brother to her since his arrival at Riverrun.

Then she danced with Edmure, who, being only six, really didn’t understand all that much of what was going on, but was happy to giggle as his older sister skipped around with him anyways. He half-regarded Catelyn as his mother, due to the six years in between them, and the fact that he’d been only three when Mother had died. 

“You’re really happy, Cat,” he said when the song finally ended, leaving them both out of breath.

Catelyn ruffled his red curls with a fond smile. “Of course I am, little brother. I’m going to marry a great man some day.” 

Brandon wasn’t quite a man yet, of course, but he would be soon. He was fourteen now, and when they wed he would be twenty and she eighteen, a man and a woman in the eyes of the gods. And his gods as well, she supposed, for he was of the North, and the North worshipped the old gods, not the Faith of the Seven. 

She doubted there was a sept at Winterfell, but surely she didn’t need one to keep the faith in her heart. Her children would grow up with both religions, but she would never stray from her own.

She offered up prayers to the Mother that night, praying for a warm, loving marriage, like that of her parents, when mother had still lived. And how could it not be so? She’d loved Brandon Stark since the first time she’d laid eyes upon him. It all felt like something out a song, and while Catelyn had always been the most sensible of her siblings, she felt that she was deserving of this one beautiful thing.

Six years later, she found Brandon and some Paege girl in the godswood, and her beautiful world came crashing down. Catelyn was not blind. She knew Brandon was tall, and handsome, and charming, and that wherever he went, women flocked to him. 

And she had felt hurt, at times, by the attention he occasionally paid to them, errant compliments and winks and bawdy japes with serving girls. But he was no Robert Baratheon, and had never shamed her by going any further. At least not in public. 

She’d just wanted to see if he would have the last dance of the night with her; their wedding date had just been announced that day; and so had slipped outside to look for him. It was a cool evening, and she had no cloak, but she’d always felt at ease roaming alone at Riverrun, and the beautiful garden of the godswood held no hidden threats. Until now.

“Brandon?” It came out like a strangled gasp, and although the giggling girl on her knees in front of him did not hear it, he did, and swore, backing away from the girl abruptly and scrambling to lace up his breeches.

All Catelyn could do was stare, transfixed in horror, one hand over her mouth.

The Paege girl saw her now and had the whereabouts to attempt to look ashamed, scrambling to her feet and fixing her bodice and skirts, face flushed and head lowered.

“Cat,” Brandon said quickly, “I- I had thought you were dancing with your uncle.”

“I came to look for you,” she said blankly, although she could feel the tears forming already. No, she couldn’t cry, not now-

“This didn’t mean anything, Cat,” Brandon said more evenly; he looked chastised without her even saying anything, like a little boy, but there was no regret or sorrow at upsetting her so in his tone. She took note of it. “I was… you weren’t meant to see that at all, and I apologize for-,”

The Paege girl fled in tears at his words, brushing past her.

Catelyn remained, frozen, unable to will her feet to walk away, to storm off, to never speak to him again. How could he do this to her? They were to be married soon! Wasn’t that enough? She would have freely given to him anything he desired! Why couldn’t he have just…

Because he’s a man, a poisonous whisper in her head informed her. And this is what men do.

Brandon took another step towards her, his hand coming up to cup her face, and then Catelyn jolted into motion, side-stepping it and shaking her head as she backed away. “You-,”

“Cat, come now-,”

“Just leave me be, Brandon!”, she snapped then, and hurried off, back towards the lights of the hall. She’d indulged in a bit of wine; Lysa was already tipsy, she knew, but Catelyn had never liked to drink all that much, for too much wine made her weepy, but now she just wanted to forget.

She was well into her cups, huddled in a corner away from the festivities, when Petyr approached her somewhat warily, looking even younger than his fourteen years in the wavering torchlight.

“Cat, what’s wrong?” His voice was so soft, so gentle and concerned, that she did burst into tears right then and there, and let him lead her out into the darkened corridor while she cried.

“It’s- it’s Brandon,” she finally admitted. “I saw him… in the godswood… with…,” she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

Petyr’s gray green eyes darkened, but he said nothing, only pulling her to him. Catelyn was a tall young woman, and Petyr a short young man, but she didn’t think of it then, only embraced him in a manner she had not in years, not since they were both children. But she was a woman now, and Petyr nearly a man himself. 

Still, how could she feel ashamed, after what Brandon had done? Been doing, most likely, for all these years? How could she have denied it so, believed that he would never go further than an innocent kiss or two with another woman? Her first kiss had been Petyr, of course, but that had been a child’s game, and she had not done so after her betrothal had been announced. She felt nothing but sisterly affection for him, nothing like how she’d felt about Brandon…

Petyr was kissing her then, and she was so shocked she did nothing, simply standing there until he pulled away. His mouth was too hot on her own, and she jerked her head back when she felt his tongue probing at her lips. He pulled back then, looking at her with a strangely earnest expression.

“Cat,” he breathed hopefully. “I would never betray you like he has. You know that, don’t you?” His eyes were glinting, even in the dark.

Her head felt as though it were stuffed with wool, and her skin was hot and flushed with the wine. She let go of him and took a wobbling step back, but the walls were lurching a little. He caught her arms and let her lean on him. “Petyr, I… I want to go to my chambers,” she murmured faintly. “I need to sleep.”

“Of course,” he assured her, leading her down the hall, and Catelyn let her eyes close a little. He smelled like mint, as always, and although his kiss had disturbed her, the scent was reassuring. He was still Petyr, her friend, her childhood playmate… he had to be well into his cups as well, although she had not smelled much wine on him. The kiss had meant nothing....

Brandon’s earlier words echoed in her mind, and she wanted nothing more than to get to her chambers and sleep. Perhaps it would all be a dream when she woke up in the morning. Petyr escorted her into her darkened rooms, the ones she shared with Lysa, and had shared since they were little more than babes, but as she sat down heavily on the bed he did not move to leave, only closed the door and barred it behind him.

“What are you doing, Petyr?” she asked dully, and tried to stand up, but her legs were weak, from the wine or the grief, she couldn’t be sure, so she remained on the bed.

“I love you, Catelyn,” he said clearly, coming around to the side of the bed. 

Catelyn simply looked at him and slowly scrambled backwards on the bed, but it felt like she was dragging herself through river mud.

“You love me as well, don’t you?” he sounded almost desperate. “I know you must. I’ve always loved you. He doesn’t deserve you. He never has.”

He climbed onto the bed in front of her, and Catelyn leaned back into her pillows, bringing up her hands in a feeble defense as he pushed them away, groping at the front of her gown. She loved this gown. It was the same deep, pure blue as the river and the sleeves billowed out gracefully. Petyr reached around her back to unlace it, and she weakly pushed at him.

“Stop it, Petyr," she said hoarsely, but he didn't stop, and she let her hands fall to her sides. She was so angry with Brandon-

He ignored her, and when her breasts were exposed his eyes went to them hungrily. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered almost reverently, but the way he fondled them like she was some whore at an inn was anything but.

Catelyn was vaguely alarmed, but couldn’t bring herself to be truly afraid. How could she fear Petyr? She knew him. She tried to cover herself, but he moved her hands away, pushing her down onto the bed. “Petyr-,”

“I know you want this, Cat. You don’t have to pretend anymore,” he said soothingly, now going to her skirt. Then his mouth was on hers once more, and all she tasted was mint… She laid very still, because if she didn’t think so much, just allowed herself to lay there and let it go on, she could pretend she was drifting in the river on her back, letting the current take her way it may. 

He barely stopped kissing her, the entire time, and when he did, she was too out of breath to do much but gasp like she was drowning and dig her nails into his arms. It hurt, when he did finally enter her, but he kept talking as though they were lovers who’d done this many times before.

When he finally stopped, kissed her forehead gently, as if she were a child, and silently left, all she could do was lie there, with no energy left to do anything much else, naked, tangled in her own sheets. She eventually fell asleep for a little bit, but was awakened by the door opening as an amused Uncle Brynden helped a drowsy Lysa into bed. 

She just moved the sheets around her so as to cover herself more, and didn’t respond to his soft “Good night, Cat”. In the morning, she thought, everything would make more sense. Everything would be alright, come morning.

In the morning what had really happened washed over Catelyn like rain, and she wept bitterly, scrubbed at the inside of her thighs, ignored Lysa’s questions and odd looks, and laid in bed for much of the day, claiming illness.

Several days later, after Brandon and his men had left, and fearful that she might be with child, although there was no way to tell as of yet, she went to Uncle Brynden. She did not give him many details, only that she’d been upset and drinking, and that she’d lain with Petyr. 

He did not yell at or scold her, but looked regretful when he brought her before Father, who had to be told what had happened several times before it sank in for him. Then she saw a fury from her father that she’d never witnessed, directed in equal parts at her and Petyr, and she fell to her knees and begged his mercy. 

He softened, in time, and embraced her like he always had, but there was a hardness to his eyes where before there had been none, and she knew she might as well have shoved a knife into his chest. 

Catelyn drank the moon tea willingly; she had no want of a bastard, and to think of a child with her coppery hair and Petyr’s smiling eyes made her feel a strange mixture of dread and longing, for she did so very much want to be a mother, but not like that, and not with Petyr… never with him. 

Father was worried how Lord Stark would take the news that the betrothal would have to be broken, and that he would not accept Lysa as a replacement to marry Brandon. Part of Catelyn wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, for Brandon had done what she had done a thousand times, and he had never had to drink moon tea or feel such shame and disgust and regret…

And then there was word of Lyanna Stark’s abduction by the prince, and Brandon was riding to King's Landing, bent on getting his beloved little sister back, and once again, Catelyn’s world was toppled.


	2. Chapter 2

Lysa Tully was convinced this was going to be one of the best days of her young life. But whenever she looked at Catelyn some of the joy went out of her like a candle being snuffed, and her happy expression fell into a frown. Despite her older sister’s best efforts to keep her composure and give off the picture of a happy bride to be, Lysa knew better. Catelyn was miserable at the prospect of marrying old Jon Arryn, who was older even than Father.

When Catelyn had first tearfully confessed to Lysa what had happened between her and Petyr, Lysa had slapped her and pushed her away, refusing to speak to her for a week afterwards. How could her sister have done such a thing? Petyr didn’t even really love her! 

He loved Lysa, she was sure of it- but when she had gone to Petyr, just before he’d been sent away, sporting a few bruises courtesy of Uncle Brynden, but otherwise healthy enough, all he’d spoken of was his hate for Father and how he’d killed his and Catelyn’s son. 

Lysa knew of no son, but she knew Father had made her sister drink moon tea to rid herself of a babe if there was one developing inside her. “Petyr,” she’d said desperately. “You must listen to me- I love you. Catelyn does not- she only cares for herself!” In her heart, Lysa knew this wasn’t true, but in that moment she’d been so enraged with her sister for taking yet another thing that should have belonged to her that it had overpowered all else. 

Petyr’s face had darkened so that it had frightened her, and she’d scurried back a step when his hand came up as if to strike her. “I would never have you the way I had Cat,” he’d hissed at her, while fat tears rolled down her cheeks. “You’d be a poor substitute, if that. I’d be better off with a whore with dyed red hair.”

“You don’t mean that,” Lysa had sobbed, but then Uncle Brynden had stormed in and dragged her out, threatening to kill Petyr if he found him near one of his nieces again. 

Lysa had been reprimanded like a misbehaving child, and forced to spend the rest of the day looking after a rambunctious, oblivious Edmure, who knew nothing of moon tea or pregnancies or why Petyr was being sent away.

Lysa knew she was not so clever as Catelyn- “Clever little Cat”, as everyone said- but she was not a foolish girl, even if she rarely properly thought things through. The idea that Petyr had never felt for her the way she’d felt for him, all these years, had been about as easy to swallow a mud pie, like the ones she and her sister had always made as girls. It had made her weep in a way that she had not since Mother had died, and Lysa had only been seven then. 

She didn’t truly hate her sister; when Mother had first died and Father had been bereft with grief for several years, Catelyn had held them all together. That was just what her sister did. Yet Lysa had always envied, and at times resented her for it. Everyone always praised Catelyn and scolded Lysa, even if Lysa was the better sewer and dancer, although she’d admit Catelyn knew her letters best and was a fine singer. 

Edmure was the treasured heir and the baby of the family, even now at twelve, and so had always been coddled and comforted. Lysa was the awkward middle child, the unnecessary second daughter, and she knew some part of Father held it against her for being born a daughter and not a son. 

Father and Catelyn had always been so close; he’d treated Catelyn as his heir until Edmure had been born, and she’d always sat right beside him at the table, listening in to all his important conversations, delighting him with her bright smiles and witty remarks. Lysa had always sat with Uncle Brynden and Edmure, like a child, even if she was only two years younger than her sister. 

But she did love her uncle, who always had a kind word and a wild tale for her, and while she knew Edmure preferred Catelyn to her, they got along well, and had similar dreamy outlooks on the world, while Catelyn was the practical, realistic one.

Except when it had come to Brandon. Lysa had no idea why her sister had ever believed that Brandon would remain faithful to her, especially before they were even married- Brandon had even flirted with her at times, and Lysa was used to being passed over in favor of her sister. 

Lysa was petite and slender, with less height and less curves than her sister, and while she was not quite as beautiful as everyone said Catelyn was, she had a sweet, innocent dimpled smile and her eyes were a slightly paler shade of blue, while her auburn hair was a shade darker and straighter. 

She’d always worn it down and flowing to her waist, while Catelyn braided hers curls back. Her features were a bit more delicate and sharper, and her voice a little higher, but when they’d been very young they’d often been mistaken for twins, until Catelyn had grown taller and fairer.

But she would never have so much as looked at Brandon- both due to her loyalty towards her sister and because she’d been so besotted with Petyr at the time that she’d had eyes for no one else. And part of her still did love Petyr, and she was convinced that part of her always would, but if Lysa could hold anything, it was a grudge, and while she was still angry with Catelyn, she saw that whatever had happened, Catelyn clearly regretted it and was suffering for it, while Petyr had seemed completely unashamed. 

He’d even written to Catelyn, although she’d burned the letter without reading it, tears in her eyes. Lysa had felt more sympathy than ire then, and gone to her sister and hugged her, and a truce had been reached between the two. Besides, the excitement of her upcoming wedding had taken over, and she’d pushed all thoughts of Petyr away, for it wasn’t every day one married the Lord of Winterfell in the midst of a great war. It was like something out of a romantic tale.

Lysa was secretly glad she was not marrying Brandon Stark; she’d cried when she’d heard of his horrible death at the hands of the Mad King, alongside his late lord father, as all the ladies had, but she had had little in common with the man, and if he could stray from someone as beautiful and gracious as Catelyn, she doubted he’d ever keep to her bed. She’d never met Eddard Stark, but he was a second son, even if he was now the lord, and second sons were always more humble than their brothers, everyone knew that. 

“Do you suppose he will be as handsome as his brother was?” she’d asked Catelyn excitedly a few days before the rebel party was to arrive. 

“You’ll have to see for yourself and find out,” Catelyn had smiled in her usual reserved manner, but the deep sadness in her eyes remained. Had she not been ruined by Petyr, Lysa knew, she would be the one marrying Eddard Stark. Instead she was marrying Jon Arryn, lord of the Eyrie, who, although everyone said he had been strong and handsome in his youth, was now an old man, old enough to be their grandfather. For once, Catelyn was the pitied one, not Lysa, and Lysa did not know what to make of it at all.

“Father says Lord Arryn is a good, honorable man,” she spoke up impulsively. “I’m sure he will like you very much, Cat. Everyone does.”

Catelyn nodded, but just said, “I am honored by the match Father has made for me, given the… circumstances.”

“At least we will still be together while the men are at war,” Lysa continued eagerly. “Who knows how long the fighting will go until the Targaryens are defeated and Lord Robert wins-,”

“And what if they lose, Lysa?” Catelyn suddenly demanded, blue eyes grim. “What will become of us then? Lord Baratheon and Lord Stark and Lord Arryn will be executed for treason, if they do not die in battle, and we will be left entirely defenseless.” 

“Father and Uncle Brynden would never let us come to any harm-,”

“Father was nearly killed by the prince’s friend Jon Connington at the last battle! Everyone knows House Tully has taken up the rebel cause, and if the rebels lose, the Targaryens will not be merciful to us just because we are women.” Catelyn sounded bitter and far older than her eighteen years.

Lysa stared at her for a moment, eyes wide. She could feel herself beginning to tremble in fear at the thought of the enemy coming to Riverrun, setting it ablaze, dragging them all out to die… Father, Uncle, Catelyn, Edmure… “I don’t want to die, Cat,” she whispered. “I- we didn’t ask for any of this, it was Father’s choice to join the rebels and arrange our marriages, not ours-,”

“Oh, Lysa,” Catelyn sighed, and pulled her close, stroking her hair the way she’d always done when Lysa had had nightmares as a child and woken up in tears. “I’m sorry for frightening you. I just… I just don’t want you to lose sight of what is at stake. This will be no normal wedding. We must pray that the rebels succeed, that there will be peace, good peace, so we might raise our children in a happier times.”

“I will pray,” Lysa vowed, although she had never been as religious as her sister.

Lords Stark and Arryn and a small party of their men arrived as dawn stretched out languidly over the river, and the last of the preparations for the joint-weddin commenced while Lysa and her sister were bathed and dressed by a bevy of handmaidens. Lysa wore pure white, with tiny silver trout stitched into the bodice, and blue and red flowers sewn along the hem of the skirt and sleeves. Catelyn was dressed in a creamy off-white ivory, a slightly simpler gown, although the material was just as fine, but she had more flowers in her hair, and their maiden cloaks matched perfectly, the silver Tully trout on the red and blue stripes. 

Now the nerves finally sunk in for Lysa, as if her toes had just reached the mud at the bottom of the river, and she looked to Catelyn anxiously as their party approached the sept. Father would give Catelyn away, while Uncle Brynden would escort Lysa. 

“Everything will be alright, Lysa,” Catelyn murmured, just before they were separated, and Lysa smiled waveringly before forcing herself to breathe as they entered the sept.

The wedding ceremony was not so grand or drawn out as anyone would have liked; there was a war raging not so far away, after all, and there was a sense of urgency the entire time, for there would not be much feasting and everyone was eager to get to the bedding to officially consummate the marriages. Lysa tried not to think about that. 

She’d almost lost her maidenhead to Petyr at least once, but he had never been willing to go much further than sticking his tongue in his mouth and groping at her breasts. She’d been unsure of whether she really wanted to do so herself, anyways- she’d always imagined the married in the eyes of the Seven, and lying together as husband and wife, Lord and Lady Baelish.

But Petyr was not the man who removed her maiden’s cloak and put the cloak of his own house around her nervous shoulders. That was Eddard Stark. Her first impression of the man everyone called Ned and looked after somberly, since his father and his brother had been cruelly murdered and his sister was missing, perhaps never to be seen again, was that he was not so tall or so handsome as his older brother had been. He had colder eyes than she remembered Brandon Stark as having, and a longer face. 

His hair was less wild and his beard much more neatly trimmed. But after he kissed her, rather chastely, he did chance a small, quiet smile at her that reminded her in many ways of Catelyn, and she thought his eyes softened somewhat. He looked a little younger and more unsure than, and she remembered that he was only nineteen, really barely a man, and hardly that much older than her, although she was only sixteen and newly a woman.

Only when they were leaving the sept, the wedding guests, small and solem group that they were, throwing river reeds at their feet and politely cheering, did she chance a look at Catelyn and her new lord husband. Catelyn kept her head held high and proud, refusing to look embarrassed or ashamed, and Lysa thought she looked more beautiful than ever before. 

Jon Arryn stood tall and straight for a man in his early sixties, and although his hair was pure white, he still had most of it and his beard was well-maintained. He was broad-shouldered and had eyes as blue as as the sky above them. 

Everyone said he had been handsome and his youth, and while he was no longer, Lysa conceded that the man was not ugly or pitiful to look upon, and seemed hale and healthy considering his age and the fact that he could still ride and swing a sword as well as any man twenty years younger. 

Even if his nose was slightly hooked, like the beak of a bird. She supposed that made sense, given the fact that the Arryn sigil was a falcon.

“Lady Lysa?” she turned quickly to her own husband, who was looking at her somewhat tentatively as they headed for the feasting hall. 

“Yes, my lord?” she replied swiftly, and tried to smile sweetly at Lord Eddard, who looked both caught off guard and vaguely pleased, flushing like a boy.

“I… I know we have never spoken before, never mind met one another in person but I… I hope that ours can be a good marriage. You know I must return to the campaign soon, but I…,” he hesitated slightly, and Lysa could not help herself.

“You may call me Lysa if you like, Lord Eddard. I am your wife now, after all. And I hope to have a good marriage as well.” She felt a surge of warmth towards him for speaking so kindly to her, despite his cold looks, and was rewarded with that softening of his eyes again.

“Then you must call me Eddard, at least in private. ...Or Ned. That is, everyone calls me Ned,” he amended a bit stiltedly.

“Ned,” she said softly, testing it out. She found she rather liked the sound of it. “Very well, Ned.”

He smiled in that quiet manner once more.

To Lysa’s dismay, she and her sister could not sit right beside each other during their shared wedding feast, but they were given respective places of honor with their husbands, and she took the opportunity to make conversation with Lord Eddard… Ned. 

Catelyn and Lord Arryn seemed to be saying far less to one another, but Lysa was relieved to see that they did appear to be in quiet conversation an hour into the celebrations.

She asked her husband every question about the North that she could think of, although she knew she would not be able to travel there until the war was over or at least some sort of truce had been reached. Ned described Winterfell in as much detail as he could to her, although she sensed he was not one for flowery descriptions, but he appeared to be trying his best, seeming unused to conversing with a woman at all, never mind for such a length of time all at once. 

She knew better than to ask about his father, older brother, or sister, but did ask after his younger brother, Benjen, who was fifteen. Ned described the boy as quick to laugh and an excellent dancer, slow to anger or to take slight, but always eager to do his duty and very loyal to those around them. 

“I look forward to meeting him when I can,” Lysa assured him. “I know I shall be sad to leave behind my own brother… and to be apart from Catelyn, of course. Father was always very protective of us when we were young, after losing Mother, and so it was always the three of us here.” She did not mention Petyr. 

She had no idea if Ned had ever met or even heard of him or not, but was determined that he not first hear of Petyr from her lips. She wouldn’t have a shadow cast upon a marriage so new and tentative. 

“I lost my mother when I was very young as well… five, I think. Benjen was barely a year old and- and my sister Lyanna was just two,” he said slowly, and sobered somewhat. “Brandon was six. He took it very badly; Mother doted on him so, and he and Father never quite saw eye to eye on things.”

“I’m very sorry for all you’ve lost, my- Ned,” Lysa reached over somewhat cautiously and squeezed his hand, and he looked at her in surprise before gently squeezing back.

“We’ve all suffered our losses,” he admitted. “But one can only hope that the tide has begun to turn in our favor.”

“I know it will,” she reassured him. “I- it would please me greatly if you would ride out with my favor on your arm, when you do leave to return to the fighting.”

He looked at her in shock for a moment before slowly smiling. “That would please me greatly as well, Lysa.”

There was no bedding ceremony; Lysa knew Father had forbidden it, not wanting any japes directed at Catelyn, and for fear of Lysa’s more… sensitive nature. For that she was grateful, although it did little to calm her as she and her lord husband were escorted to their temporary marriage chambers. 

Catelyn and Lord Arryn would be just at the other end of the hall, but it seemed like leagues away at that moment. She managed to catch her sister’s gaze, and they shared a brief, wary smile before being ushered into their rooms. 

When the door shut it was just Lysa and Ned, and the two looked at each other before both looking away.

“I have never done this before,” he finally admitted after a long silence stretched between them, only punctuated by the crackle and pop of the fire in the hearth.

“Neither have I,” she said abruptly, then flushed- of course she had not, to say that she had would have broken the entire marriage, she was a woman, and he was a man-

“Then I… I suppose we’ll have to stumble through it together.” He almost sounded as if he were trying to jest. Cold, somber Ned Stark was trying to make her feel better with a jest.

Lysa smiled and stepped forward to take his hands in her own. They were much rougher and bigger than her own, but they were warm. “Yes, we will.”

He did not taste of mint when they kissed, but of something slightly more wild and fierce, although it did not frighten her then. Lysa did not think she loved him, not truly, at that moment, but she did not care, because he was kind and gentle and did not rush or hurry her, and all she felt was a flood of fond affection when it was over and he pulled her to him, for her to rest her head on his bare chest, while his fingers ran through her hair. 

She fell asleep like that, listening to the fire die down, and the distant sound of the river breeze just outside the window.


	3. Chapter 3

Catelyn stood with her sister on the castle ramparts, watching their husbands ride off to war once more, just as she and Lysa had watched Father ride away or come back a thousand times. Edmure stood by their sides as well, sullen. He had begged Lord Eddard to take him with him as a squire, and was upset that both his brother-in-laws and his father had forbidden it. 

Catelyn was relieved; war was no place for a sweet, sheltered by like Edmure, who thought he would make a splendid knight but had no idea of the realities of battle. Let him be a child a little longer, she thought, for Lysa and I will never be girls again.

Hoster Tully was silent and grim, both at the reminder that the war was from won, and because he’d been locked into yet another fight with Uncle Brynden since Catelyn and Lysa’s weddings a fortnight earlier. Brynden had announced his intention to serve her future household by joining Lord Jon and his men, and of course, had ignored Father’s commands and ridden off to war. 

Father was furious at being disobeyed by his rebellious younger brother yet again, claiming him disowned now, and Catelyn was fearful that Uncle Brynden, who was renowned for his prowess in battle throughout the Seven Kingdoms, would fall by Rhaegar Targaryen or Jon Connington’s sword, as Father nearly had.

She was also, of course, afraid neither of her or Lysa’s husbands would return. Catelyn had expected a strained relationship between herself and Lord Arryn; he knew she was ruined, of course, although she did not think he knew by whom, and while he had been kind and courteous during the wedding ceremony and feast, she had not expected much afterwards. 

Jon Arryn was indeed a good, wise man, as Father had said, but he was also an old, proud man, who had been married twice before, and suffered much. Both his heirs had been killed; Ser Elbert by the Mad King, and Ser Denys in the Battle of the Bells just before their marriage; they’d received word that Ser Denys’s young wife and infant had died in the birthing bed a few days after the wedding.

And so Catelyn had assumed that while Jon Arryn might treat her respectfully enough in public, that in private it would be difficult for any man to put aside what had happened… what she had allowed to happen. But instead they had sat and spoken; had an honest, open discussion as man and wife, at that, and in the firelight Lord Jon had not looked so old or stern and she had pecked him on the mouth of her own free will and brushed off his apology when they laid together in the marriage bed. 

Should he die, the Vale needed an heir, and neither of their feelings mattered as much as that. And it had not been so terrible. Certainly not any worse than it had been with Petyr, and she was trying very hard to forget that. There was not much pain, and when it was over it had truly been over, and she had fallen asleep very quickly, and, if she had not felt any real love or attraction, had at least felt safe.   
It was no sin to lie with your husband, she reminded herself. What had happened with Petyr had been so very wrong, but this was different, this was right and good.

In the morning they had had breakfast together in the room and Lord Arryn had told her all about the Vale; he said it was a place of great beauty, like Riverrun, if a bit more wild and dangerous at times. And the Eyrie was one of the most awe-inspiring castles in all the realm. 

“I… I hope they will like me there, my lord,” she had said tentatively, turning over her warm cup in her hands, for there was a slight chill in the room. “And that they can… look past…,”

“Lady Catelyn, you are my wife,” Lord Jon had said firmly. “And my people will respect you as such. What happened is in the past now, and we must only look to the future.”

That had raised her hopes a bit, for she did truly hope they could both come to a point where there was no bitterness between them. She had given him her favor before she rode out, blue and red on his arm, just as Lysa had did for Lord Eddard, and she’d been happy to see that her sister did truly seem fond of her new husband, and he her. There would always be some envy, for she would have married Lord Eddard, had Petyr not… 

But there was no use in dwelling on it, or dwelling on what had happened to Brandon. She knew now that she had never loved Brandon, not truly, that it had been a girl’s infatuation, but… she wished they could have parted on better terms, before his awful death. He had not deserved that. He may not have been the man she’d dreamed he’d be, but he had still been a good man, and he had just wanted to protect his sister and his family’s honor.

Now she watched the horses kick up dust on the road in the distance, and kept her chin raised and her expression calm and serene long after they had parted. Father spoke to her privately, afterwards, still incensed at Uncle Brynden’s ‘betrayal’ but clearly trying to convey a different feeling to her, at least. “You did me very proud, Little Cat.” He had not called her that in a long time. “I know it was not what any of us wanted for you, but you did your duty.”

“Family, duty, honor,” Catelyn recited, and knew that while she would never say or show any sign of it, part of her would always resent him for forcing her to marry a man old enough to be her grandfather. But he had just been doing what he’d had to, and he was still her father. “I’m glad to have pleased you, Father.” 

She did not know what else to say. The days when she had brightly chatted with her father about anything and everything were gone forever, she knew that now. Petyr was wedged between them, and always would be.

“Yes,” he said with a frown, and although she knew he likely wanted to say more, dismissed her regretfully. 

Lysa cried over Lord Eddard’s departure for much of the next few days, and Edmure sulked and threw himself into his training, and Catelyn worried constantly, but when her moonblood did not come weeks later at the end of the month, she dared to hope. She would not have said anything- it would be some time before it could be confirmed by a maester, and if she lost the babe early, while she thought she might go mad, she would not, could not have everyone else knowing. 

Yet when Lysa came to her, pale and wide-eyed and slightly giddy, whispering, “Cat, I think I may… I may be carrying Ned’s child,” Catelyn had embraced her and said as much herself. Lysa was thrilled, and had wanted to tell everyone right then and there, but Catelyn had warned her against it, and so it had remained a secret between the two, a happy secret, like one of the ones they had shared as little girls.

“Ned said that if I was… to get with child, if it was a boy, he’d like it to be named Robb,” Lysa said happily as they sewed alone.

Catelyn smiled. “What if the babe is a girl?”

“Well, I thought to name her for Mother, but I suppose a Northron girl must have a Northron name,” Lysa hummed thoughtfully to herself. “What about yours, Catelyn?”

Catelyn had not thought much on it. The babe inside her still didn’t feel quite real, although she had begun to be sick most mornings. “I’ll have to look up Arryn names in one of Father’s books.”

Maester Kym had prepared the moon tea for Catelyn, months and months ago, and now it was he who confirmed that both she and Lysa were with child. Father was pleased, and Brynden, well-equipped by now with the knowledge of what happened in the marriage bed, disgusted at the thought, but excited to be an uncle all the same. 

Catelyn wrote to Lord Arryn to inform him, although some part of her still feared she would lose the infant, either before the birthing bed, in it, or shortly thereafter, and Lysa did similarly with Lord Stark. Neither expected swift replies, and indeed did not receive any for a few months, but while Catelyn was not privy to Lord Eddard’s reply, Lord Jon seemed well-pleased with her. 

Months passed. Catelyn observed her stretched stomach in the mirror each morning, and when the babe first kicked under her hand, gasped so loudly that Lysa awoke in the bed on the other side of the room with a start. Catelyn’s child kicked first, but it was slender, narrow-hipped Lysa who went into labor first. 

Maester Kym’s health was failing rapidly, but he was still right enough in the mind to guide a frightened young woman through the process of labor, although he tried to forbid Catelyn from the room, for fear it would send her into labor as well. Catelyn brushed past him anyways, and supported Lysa’s back while she screamed and wailed in pain, trying to ignore the blood and fluids on the bed sheets.

Her sister bruised her hands, she gripped them so tightly, but she suddenly went silent, gasping for breath, and it was just past dawn when a wailing baby girl slid into the world. Maester Kym proclaimed the babe a healthy, if a bit small, daughter, and after cutting the cord had one of the attending midwives towel off the babe and hand it a silently weeping Lysa.

Catelyn laughed breathlessly at the sight of the ruddy streaks of hair on the babe’s head. “She looks like a Tully, through and through.”

“She’s beautiful,” Lysa breathed, placing kisses on the infant’s forehead. “She has my ears and nose and Ned’s face.”

“What will you call her?” 

Lysa smiled faintly. “Lynisa, for our mother and his.”

“A good name,” Catelyn approved, trying to ignore the pains in her own stomach.

Her waters broke just as the sun went down, while Lysa slept and Catelyn’s niece slept, greatly weakened by the birth. Catelyn waited as long as possible before calling for the maester, after seeing what Lysa had gone through, but the birth was mercifully quicker than her sister’s had been in- the babe was born before midnight.

Yet it was silent and grey, and Catelyn looked on in confusion as the maester and the midwives rubbed vigorously at the child and pounded its back.

“No,” she murmured slowly. “No, please, my baby-,”

There was a long moment where she felt as though she were drowning, and then the infant let out a thin cry, and she could breathe again.

“A boy, big and strong,” one of the midwives told her with a smile. “Now that he’s learned how to breathe. And look at that fair hair!”

Catelyn looked down at her son, now placed in her arms, and remembered that Lord Jon had said he’d been blond as a young man. “Donnel Arryn,” she said slowly. “My son.” Our son, she reminded herself, her’s and… and Jon’s. She was glad the boy was not auburn haired, because she would have been reminded of the child who had never been, the one that was half her, half Petyr, whom she sometimes saw in her nightmares.

Father came to see the babes and offered his congratulations, and the bells were rung the next morning, but it still felt like a waking dream.

“They’ll share a name day, just think!” Lysa exclaimed the next morning, in between cooing at a gurgling Lynisa.

Catelyn smiled, and wished she felt the same immediate flood of love towards Donnel. Of course she loved him, she was his mother, she had to… But she mostly felt tired, and frightened and worried still, that he would never meet his father, never have any siblings, that he would lose her too, born into a time of war and strife and so much death.

The battle at the Trident began a fortnight later, and Father wanted to send them and Edmure and the babes to the twins, but Catelyn flatly refused. “Do you think Lord Frey will not happily hand us over to the royalist army if the Trident is lost? If we’re to die, I will die here, at our home.”

Hoster Tully was not pleased. “Catelyn, do not make me-,”

“I won’t go either,” Lysa spoke up suddenly and stubbornly. “I know we will win, but if we do not, I will not flee to the Freys, of all people!”

In the end, faced with two defiant daughters with infants in their arms, Hoster Tully conceded, but the battle was won by the rebel forces, and when Catelyn got word from Jon that he and Lord Stark both lived, and were headed to the capital to defeat the remainder of the Targaryen forces, she slid down to the floor and cried, praying for a quick surrender there.

The Sack of King’s Landing, of course, would go down in the history annals, but Catelyn knew little of it until much later, when Uncle Brynden came home with news of Eddard Stark headed even further south to find his sister, and an escort for Catelyn to the Vale.

“Your husband is the new Hand of the King, Little Cat,” he told her, and Catelyn simply looked at him, then glanced down at Donnel, several months old and as blond and blue-eyed as his father, before slowly nodding.


	4. Chapter 4

Lysa had never been this cold before. She clutched Lynisa, who was just shy of six months old, to her chest as she stepped gingerly down from the wheelhouse. Lysa was a decent rider, although Catelyn had always been better with horses, but the terrain of the North was much different from that of the Riverlands, and it was hard to both manage a horse and a babe who’d just started crawling at the same time. 

Snow crunched underfoot, and she tilted back the hood of her warm winter cloak so as to get a better look at the massive snow-covered fortress before her. So this was Winterfell, stronghold of the North. The wintertown they’d just came through had been bustling, although it was said that it was empty and somewhat barren when the snows receded some; it was early spring now, and would another year or two until summer came, according to the Citadel.

However, the worst of the season seemed to have passed, and the sky was clear enough now, a cold sun glinting down on the small party and making Lysa’s auburn hair glow darkly. 

In looks, aside from her long face and solemn grey eyes, Lynisa seemed to take largely after her mother; her hair was coming in just as a dark an auburn, although it had a bit of a curl to it. 

She was a fretful, restless babe- Lysa attributed it to having yet to meet Ned, who she hoped would be a calming influence. On both of them. She tried to put her fears to rest once and for all, now that there was peace and they would finally all be together as a family, but the unease remained.

The last of Ned’s letters had been… sparse. His sister was dead. He had not specified what, but she assumed from some illness. Despite the horrific civil war that had just ensued, Lysa still couldn’t picture anyone willfully hurting an innocent girl like Lyanna Stark. 

Well, the innocence was up for debate, depending on where you were- whispers that Lyanna had seduced the married prince and plunged them all into war were not uncommon in the South- but in the North Lysa was aware enough to realize that the girl was considered almost a martyr of sorts, and that the general consensus was that Rhaegar Targaryen had taken her against her will.

Whatever had happened, Lysa supposed it didn’t matter now. Both were dead. She had never met Lyanna, and thus couldn’t really grieve her, but she knew Ned must be heartbroken that after all this, his younger sister was gone for good, and she was preparing herself to deal with a deeply hurt man. Ned would try to put on a brave face, of course, but she hoped he could open himself up with her.

They’d only known each other for a fortnight over a year ago, of course, but she was his wife.

You are Lysa Stark now, she reminded herself. And you belong here, no matter what anyone thinks. 

She’d seen the stares, after all. She looked every inch the fragile, soft Southron women- although the South had seen far more war than the North, she thought indignantly- and would be judged as such until she proved herself a worthy lady of House Stark.

She wished Lynisa could have taken a bit more after Ned in appearance, sometimes, but the shape of the face and the eyes were undoubtedly his, and that would have to do. Besides, they had plenty of time for other children. She sometimes dreamed of a son with Ned’s dark hair and her blue eyes. 

A group of riders was coming out to meet them, and Lysa recognized one at the forefront instantly, and gasped in joy.

“Ned!” she cried out, dashing forward before remembering herself and dipping into a curtsey as he pulled his horse up in front of her. “My lord husband.”

“My lady wife.” 

He looked… much the same, if a bit older. It was his eyes, she decided after a few moments. They looked older. And his hair was shorter and his face clean-shaven, although she supposed that made sense, since he’d recently spent so much time in Dorne. But the smile on his face was almost one of relief as he looked down on her, and then slowly dawning joy when he took notice of the babe in her arms.

“And my daughter,” he said quietly, and Lysa looked up at him, beaming.

“She has your eyes.”

“And your hair,” he acknowledged, cautiously taking the tiny girl in his arms, and cradling her, looking down at her in wonder. “She’s beautiful, Lysa.”

“She’ll be the most beautiful girl in the North, some day,” Lysa vowed- she felt like her heart was fit to burst. Ned handled the babe so well it was almost as if he’d been around infants before, although she could think of none that he might have met.

That question was answered shortly after they entered Winterfell’s keep. Lynisa was handed off to a wet nurse, although Lysa watched them go anxiously- she was very protective of her daughter, and had been fearful that she would take ill from the cold the entire two month journey north from Riverrun. 

Ned took her aside down a corridor and into the solar. Lysa, who was still only a girl of seventeen, with all the corresponding emotions of one, assumed his purpose to be something much different from what it was, and kissed him eagerly as soon as the door had closed behind them. He responded slowly, but drew back, holding her arms.

Lysa searched his face, but found nothing. She laid a small hand against it with a soft look. “I’m sorry- that was forward, Ned, I just- only it has been so long since we’ve seen each other, and I thought of you constantly-,”

“And I you,” he said with a small, sad smile. “But there is something I must tell you, Lysa. And I’m… I’m afraid-,”

Lysa felt a bit faint suddenly, and sat down slowly in one of the chairs, gripping the armrests tightly. She couldn’t imagine what he had to tell her, but to see him so obviously discomfited- 

“Ned?” she asked waveringly. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“I…,” he sighed, and then spoke firmly, as if hoping to get it out and over with. “I betrayed you, Lysa.”

She looked at him blankly, not understanding what he could possibly mean. He was here, wasn’t he? They were together again, them and Lynisa and now they could finally be a family, a proper family-

“I laid with a woman other you, my wife,” he continued. His tone was almost hard, but any anger or frustration seemed to be directed at himself, not her. “I betrayed the vows I took at our wedding and I betrayed your devotion to me as my wife. I’m sorry, Lysa. More sorry than you could ever know. I couldn’t blame you if you hated me for this, but I hope- I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me someday.” He finished stiffly, as if it had been recited like a lesson, and Lysa did not move, still staring at him in shock.

Ned had… been with another. After their marriage. Yes, because she remembered how he’d been just as inexperienced as her on their wedding night. At some point, during the remainder of the war- 

Well, he is a man, a little voice in her head spoke up pointedly. Men do these things, even when not apart from wives they barely know for months and months on end.

Lysa wasn’t sure whether she was infuriated or heartbroken. She didn’t know what to feel. Part of her could hardly believe it. Ned was… he was no ordinary man. He was honorable and good and just- how could a man like that do such a thing? It was just once, she reminded herself sharply. And he is telling you, rather than hiding it. That speaks to his character. Surely she could find it in her to forget this. They were together now, he was truly sorry, and that was what was important-

“A child came of it, Lysa.”

Lysa’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. She felt like she might vomit for a few moments, but mercifully the ill sensation passed. “A… a natural-born child?” she whispered, although she felt like a fool. Of course it was a bastard, he was married to her, not whomever he had lain with.

“Yes,” Ned nodded stiffly. “I… Lysa, the child is here. An infant boy, named Jon. Jon Snow.”

“You brought him here?!” Lysa couldn’t hold the tidal wave of emotions pent up inside her back anymore. “Ned- Ned, how could you do such a thing?!” To sire a bastard boy was one thing. Lysa knew she could have eventually seen past that to the good man she knew Ned to be. But to bring the child here, to his home- their home- Lynisa’s home- 

That bastard’s mother must be no common whore, the little voice continued spitefully. A great lady, perhaps. Greater than you, certainly.

“His mother is dead,” Ned said, and what broke Lysa then and there was the genuine grief in his words. “She… she did not survive the birth.”

He did love her, then, Lysa thought. He has never loved me- he barely knows me- but he knew this woman, he knew her well, and now she is gone. And their son was here. Their son. Lysa had only given House Stark a daughter. A trueborn daughter, but one with Tully red hair, conceived and born in the South. Ned had brought a son. 

“Lysa, I know this must be- difficult, but… I could not leave the boy. I promised… I promised his mother.”

“You promised ME,” she spat then. “You promised me that you would be my lord husband and- and- and act accordingly! You promised me first!” She felt childish, hearing her own words, and felt even more childish at the look he gave her. Lysa shrunk into herself slightly. She had no real power here, not yet. And perhaps not ever, if she displeased him.

“I did promise you,” Ned finally said, running a hand through his hair. “And I am sorry to have hurt you so, Lysa. But the boy is here now, and here he will stay. I do not expect you to love him, only to- to not hold my sins against him.”

But it was a bastard’s plight to be held accountable for the actions of their parents, Lysa thought, and although she did not think she could truly hate a mere babe, she could hate the existence of it quite easily. Why? Why did this have to happen now, just when she’d thought things were finally well once more?

“Lysa…”

“I want to see him,” she said then, ignoring the look on her husband’s face. “The boy.”

Ned hesitated, but slowly nodded and led her out of the solar, down darkened corridors and up winding stone stairs. Passing servants, busy bringing in her and Lynisa’s things, gawked after them. Lysa tried to hold her head up high and keep her back stiff and straight, as Catelyn would have done, but failed miserably. Instead she stared down at the floor, consumed with rage and regret and denial. 

It was difficult, so difficult, to reconcile the man before her with the one she’d wed what seemed like ages ago. War changes men, she reminded herself, but Ned Stark did not seem so much changed as corrupted, in her eyes, like twisted steel. 

He led her into a small, shadowed room. At least he did not put the bastard in Lynisa’s nursery, she thought, but was transfixed by the sight of the cradle. The woman sitting beside it, humming and rocking it, quickly stood up and curtsied as they entered, sidling out behind them to give them privacy.

Lysa tentatively approached the sleeping babe, and stared down a face that was so like Ned’s it hurt her heart. The hair was thick and dark and the face long like Lynisa’s, but this babe had Ned’s nose and ears as well. The boy was undoubtedly younger than her daughter, but seemed big and healthy and looked utterly serene, as if he instinctively knew he belonged here.

But you don’t, she thought desperately. You don’t belong here at all.

“He is my son, Lysa,” Ned said quietly. “I had hoped… I had hoped he and Lynisa might grow up together, as siblings of a sort, even if they have different mothers.”

“Ned,” Lysa said, wrapping her arms around herself. “He cannot- what will people think? You cannot raise your bastard along with your trueborn children!”

“Lysa, I will not have him punished for the rest of his life for my sins!” he snapped.

“He need not be- it will punish the boy more, to have him raised here, always knowing he is not a trueborn son! Ned, please- you need not send him far, to White Harbor, perhaps, with the Manderlys, after he is weaned,”

“He remains here, Lysa,” Ned said coldly, with a note of finality. 

“Don’t you-,” How could he not understand? Did he know nothing? “Ned, he is your firstborn son,” she hissed. “And he looks every inch a Stark, regardless of who his mother was.”

He flinched slightly at that. 

“My daughter- You cannot let him remain here and threaten your current heir’s claim,” she continued sharply. “This is not just about me and you- what if we never have a son, only daughters?”

“We will have a son, Lysa, don’t be ridiculous-,”

“What if we don’t?” she retorted. “I could only birth daughters, or die in the birthing bed or of a chill-,”

He grabbed her hands. “Don’t speak nonsense, you are young and healthy-,”

“Nothing is guaranteed!” Lysa tore her hands away. The bastard had stirred and began to whimper in his sleep. “Ned, I understand that you love the boy- that you loved his mother-,” her voice almost broke then, but she struggled through it. “But I am your wife, and Lynisa is heir to Winterfell until a son is birthed by me. And this boy could take that all away from her, someday. From us. What if you were to die? Your lords could put him forth as your heir, and cast us out-,”

“That will never happen,” he all but growled. “You are Starks now, both of you.”

“If you keep him here, they will see him as a Stark too! Please, Ned, whatever- whatever affection you have for me, or had- if you care for me and Lynisa, you will send him away as soon as he is weaned. He can be raised Northron, as a Snow, anywhere, with any of your lords- anywhere but here.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Ned shook his head. “No, Lysa. Jon remains here. I will speak no more on it with you.”

Lysa’s shoulders sagged, and she turned and walked silently out of the room as the babe began to cry in earnest. 

Later, she held Lynisa in her arms in her new rooms, and stared out at the softly drifting snow. She had wanted her daughter to grow up in a place of laughter, and light, and dreams, with a father and mother who loved one another deeply. With trueborn siblings to play with. Now all of that seemed far away and lost, obscured by blinding white, cold snow. 

“Lynisa Stark,” she murmured to the babe. “You are a Stark, and I will never let any of them forget it. Eldest trueborn child of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.”

When her husband finally came in quietly behind her, she did not turn around to face him, and continued to stare out at the falling snow.


	5. Chapter 5

Catelyn accepted the reality that Donnel would have to be brought to the capitol to be presented to the king when he was ten months old. He was old enough to travel by now without fear of him getting ill or being too weak, and by all accounts he was a healthy, perfectly normal child. He had a head of ash blond curls and blue eyes just a shade paler than her own. She saw herself in his smile and the more rounded shape of his face, but everything else was all his father. 

Jon was frequently away for his duties as the hand, and while Catelyn and Donnel could have resided with him at King’s Landing, Catelyn had no desire to raise an infant in a city like that, and her husband had agreed that it’d better to wait until the boy was older before he spent any great length of time at court. But a visit to be presented was simply part of their duty, and could not be avoided. Still, Catelyn was not happy to have to leave her new home.

When she’d first come to the Eyrie with a babe in her arms, she’d been intimidated and anxious. Jon was away and the only one she had to turn to was Uncle Brynden. The Vale itself was a strange place; she’d never been surrounded by so many mountains in her life, although she supposed they were comforting, in a way. 

It was an isolated, lonely sort of place, but she felt hidden, protected from the harsh gaze of the world there. The lands were as fertile as they were in the Riverlands, and the rivers and lakes were a welcome sight to someone used to being around freshwater. 

The people had been honorable and kind to her, perhaps more kind than they had any right to be. Her husband’s bannermen seemed relieved he finally had an heir not likely to die anytime soon, and Donnel had been showered with gifts and invitations and of course, betrothal suggestions since their arrival. Catelyn could not even think of arranging a marriage for a boy who could barely speak, never mind walk, and was grateful that her lord husband felt the same way. 

She could count the number of time she’d seen Jon on one hand since the end of the war, but when he’d first laid eyes on Donnel he’d almost looked as if he might weep, and although she held no love for the man, she did feel a sort of affection and fondness towards him, if only because he had been good to her, and she was happy to have pleased him so. 

Petyr had written her another letter. She knew he was likely in the Vale- his family hailed from there. But she had again burned the letter without reading it, and tried to put him out of her mind. He would not dare attempt to meet with her in person. Jon might not know it was him who had… ruined her, but Petyr was clever enough to keep his head down for fear of the repercussions. At least, she hoped he was. Catelyn was nineteen now, and she knew Petyr had to be nearly a man grown by now, but in her head all she could picture was the quiet boy she’d known.

The quiet boy who ruined everything for you, a voice usually hissed in her head then, and so she threw herself into raising Donnel instead. It was difficult. She didn’t sleep well for months after his birth, wracked with nightmares of waking to find him dead, or missing, or that Petyr was on top of her again, spreading her legs. She didn’t have much appetite, and knew the weight of the pregnancy fell off and then some, leaving her more skinny than slender. She cried more often than not, and found herself snapping at servants and even Uncle Brynden. And sometimes it was hard to reconcile the fact that Donnel was her son, that she had really birthed him. It was difficult to find anything Tully in him, at times. 

She felt like an imposter, playing as a sort of mummer. How could she be a good mother? She barely knew her husband, barely knew herself… She hadn’t even seen two decades, and she was supposed to be Lady Arryn, ruling the Vale in her husband’s stead. It was difficult, but as Donnel grew some of her fears had subsided, and she did come to realize that she enjoyed overseeing the running of the household and dealing with the minor lords and ladies. 

She was good at playing the mediator, the peace-keeper, and although she was young, the people seemed to accept her judgement. And she could always write to her husband for advice on how to handle a certain matter. Jon often praised her wisdom, despite her youth, and it gave Catelyn a certain pride to have his approval. 

Donnel was a happy, sweet-natured toddler, quicker to smile than to frown. He reminded her of Edmure as a babe, and that gave her a great deal of comfort. She sang him songs of the Riverlands but called him ‘my little falcon’, and promised him that one day she would take him to see his Grandfather and Uncle Edmure, and his Aunt Lysa and Uncle Ned. He could walk about now if she held his hand, and was frequently getting into everything, much to the exasperations of his nursemaids, but Catelyn preferred to do the bulk of his rearing herself. 

It was a solitary sort of life to lead, but it was a better one than she might have hoped for, and so she did find herself almost close to tears when they descended the mountain for Gulltown, where they would take a ship around Crackclaw Point and past Dragonstone to Blackwater Bay. It was only a two week’s ride to Gulltown, and they were escorted by Uncle Brynden, among other Valemen.

Gulltown was the largest city in the Vale, although it was nothing compared to King’s Landing. Catelyn made use of its seamstresses- she needed court gowns and new things for Donnel, who seemed to outgrow clothes left and right, and then it was time to board the ship. She bid a nervous goodbye to her uncle, who ruffled her loose auburn curls.

“You’ll be fine, Little Cat. You never forget a courtesy, and Donny will charm them all with that smile of his.” 

Donnel giggled and patted at his great-uncle’s weathered face, before they were escorted onto the ship. Catelyn stood on the deck, making the toddler wave good-bye, as they left the harbor, until Gulltown was obscured by the fog and completely out of sight. 

Catelyn was relieved when she saw Jon and several men of the Hand’s household along the docks as the ship pulled in a week later, and was one of the first off, Donnel in her arms. She feared her curls were a wind-blown mess and that she reeked of fish and the sea, but her lord husband gallantly helped her up onto a waiting horse all the same. 

There was no palanquin; Jon Arryn had always been a fairly modest man, especially when it came to the comportment of his household, and Catelyn found she could not complain. The accounts and stores of the Eyrie had been in excellent order when she’d first gone over them with the steward. Her husband was not inclined to a lavish lifestyle, although it would have been far too easy to indulge.

The streets were packed with beggars and street children and shouting vendors, and Catelyn clutched her son closer to her as they passed a butchers and bakeries and markets and brothels. She could not do much but explain pleasantries with her husband until they had passed into the Red Keep and were safely inside the Hand’s Tower, and only then did she set a squirming Donnel down.

He immediately toddler curiously towards his father, who took him up in his arms with a smile. “Do you remember who I am then, lad?”

The little boy searched the old man’s face for a moment before declaring “Papa!” and was rewarded by being tossed up in the air and caught again.

“He remembers you, my lord,” Catelyn said in relief, having been worried the boy would cry at the sight of an unfamiliar face. 

“Of course he does,” said Jon, kissing Donnel’s curly head; her breath caught slightly in her throat, for he did show such easy affection with the child, something decidedly rare in fathers. “And now he shall have a whole turn of the moon to get to know me some more.”

Reluctantly, he set Donnel down to let him explore the solar. “I am sorry to have to bring you here, my lady-,”

“Catelyn is fine,” Catelyn said softly. “Or Cat. It is no real trouble, I just- I have come to see the Vale as a home, my lord.”

“Jon,” he corrected, and they shared an amused look. “I’m glad of it. But Robert is insistent, as always, and perhaps seeing the boy might do him some good. The queen is with child and having a rough time of it.”

“Poor woman,” said Catelyn, who did not know Cersei Lannister turned Baratheon very well, but who had heard whispers of great beauty and a terrible wrath if crossed, much like her lord father.

“Aye, well, Robert is far from sympathetic- I will give you the truth of it, Catelyn, the two can hardly stand to be in the same room as one another, and they haven’t even been married a year.”

Catelyn was surprised. “I thought it was Cersei Lannister’s dearest ambition to be queen. Her father proposed a match between her and Prince Rhaegar often enough.”

“Do not mention that name, or any Targaryen name, within these walls,” Jon warned seriously. “Dragonstone was only taken back a few moons ago, and Robert is incensed that his brother arrived too late to capture the children. They will be in Braavos by now, most likely. There is talk of sending.... agents of the throne, to see to it that the boy does not see manhood.”

“But they’re just children!”

“Robert Baratheon is a changed man,” Jon said quietly. “And while he has the potential to be a great king, I doubt his rage will be satisfied until every Targaryen is dead. It is certainly not helping matters between him and the queen. Robert rarely keeps to her bed, and even if he would, I doubt she would be welcoming. She may have wanted desperately to be queen, but now that Cersei Lannister has tasted the crown I think she finds it more bitter than she anticipated.”

Catelyn cast her worried gaze to Donnel, who was tugging at a tapestry on the wall to help himself stand up. 

“Donnel is well-protected here, and Robert would never let harm come to any child of mine,” Jon assured her. “Or wife. He is keen on meeting you and the boy- he has such little family left, and with Ned up North… He and Stannis cannot stand each other, and Renly is just a little boy at Storm’s End. We will dine with him and the queen tonight.”

Catelyn nodded warily.

They dined with the king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms in one of their private sitting rooms. Catelyn was surprised that more of the court was not present, but supposed that the king wished for a more intimate affair, given that he considered her husband to be akin to a father. She wondered if that made her like his goodmother, and had to resist the urge to laugh at the thought. 

She wore a pale greyish blue silk gown, with a midnight colored sash around the waist and a silvery wing-like pattern on the bodice. The sleeves were long and billowing and while she was a bit warm in it, it was quite modest, which she thought was important, given her position. She wasn’t just some tittering lady in waiting, she was the wife of the Hand, a role usually occupied by a much older woman, not a girl of nineteen.

She brushed out her coppery curls until they gleamed and wore them down, then made sure Donnel’s little doublet was put on properly, before taking her son’s hand in her own and her husband’s arm in the other, as they made their slow procession. Jon told her she looked lovely, and she thanked him with a faint blush of pride. 

The event could be summed up in two phrases: Robert was drunk, and Cersei was seething. 

Catelyn kept as quiet as a mouse, both out of intimidation and worry of saying the wrong thing. Jon was right; Robert seemed enchanted by Donnel, marveling at how much ‘he looked like Denys’, and when she saw the way her husband’s eyes darkened in sadness Catelyn silently reached over and squeezed his rough hand. He looked surprised, but squeezed her hand back.

The queen watched all this with a look of barely veiled contempt; Catelyn saw multiple things in it. Cersei Lannister despised her husband, that much was obvious, and resented being forced to entertain them in her current position, weak and constantly ill due to the tumultuous pregnancy. She was embarrassed to some degree because she knew she did not look her regal best, but like any other tired, pregnant eighteen year old girl, her face drawn and pale and her golden curls limp.

That said, Catelyn admitted that the queen was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, and Robert still a handsome young man, though fond of his drink to the point of shaming himself and his furious wife. But there was a darkness brewing between them, and it made her decidedly uncomfortable. 

Perhaps Robert Baratheon had once been a good, brave man, and Cersei Lannister a kind, sweet maiden, but they brought out the worst in one another now, and it was almost painful to watch. She hoped for both of their sake’s that the pregnancy went well and that the babe was a boy, an heir. There would be less pressure to keep having child after child then.

But it did make her think of her own marriage, and that night she did go to Jon, unrobing hesitantly before him until she saw the look on his face and stopped, flushing as red as a maiden, although they both knew she was not.

“Catelyn,” he said gently. “You have done your duty and more as my wife. I have a son now, and I would not ask more of you than you are willing to give.”

“But we are wed,” she pointed out, “And you-,”

“Do not feel as if you must come to me when you do not want to,” he assured her. “I am an old man, Catelyn, and you are barely more than a girl. I am glad we have come to an understanding, but I know this was not the marriage you desired-,”

“You are a good man!” she burst out with. “Before anything else! Good and honest and true to me and Donnel. We need not lie to each other and… and profess false love, but I would… I would not be opposed to lying with you… Jon. It would bring me no grief.”

He stood up slowly and embraced her then, and she buried her head in his shoulder for a moment before stepping back a little teary-eyed. “And I would… I would like to give Donnel siblings, some day. I don’t want him to grow up alone.”

“There is time enough for that,” he chuckled softly. “I may be old, but I am in perfectly fine health, and the maesters all agree that at least a year in between siblings is likely best.”

She giggled a little, and kissed him on the cheek, and although no lust for him flooded through her veins, felt more safe and happy with her husband than she had in quite some time, especially when Donnel woke up in the night and hearing his cries, Jon simply went into the next room, picked him up, and brought him into their chambers to lie between them. Catelyn drifted to sleep with one hand in her son’s sweet-smelling curls and the other resting on her husband’s back, a small smile tugging at her lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Lysa’s husband was not one for elaborate feasts, but he seemed determined to make sure the one held in honor of his daughter’s first name day was among the most lavish Winterfell had seen in some years. Of course, ‘lavish’ according to Northron standards was far different from what Lysa was used to, but she appreciated the effort all the same. 

In the months since her and Lynisa’s journey North, Ned and Lysa had reached an uneasy sort of truce. She had not forgiven him for bringing his bastard home with him, and they had only lain together- truly lain together- a few times since then, and more out of mutual desperation than lust or affection. 

Lysa knew in her heart that Ned hoped that if he was more freely affectionate with her, she would come to forgive him and accept Jon Snow, and she knew in her heart that she hoped that he would soon get a child on her again, this one a boy. It would settle her nerves, to know she’d birthed a Northron heir for House Stark, and to know that now she and Lynisa were safe from the bastard. 

She felt ridiculous, fearing an infant, but the Seven Kingdoms knew what highborn bastards who felt that they deserved just as much as their trueborn siblings were capable of, and while Jon Snow might be a harmless child now, the love Ned hoped that could be fostered between him and his half-sister could quickly turn to resentment and greed. 

There was a real chance she might not see her daughter grow up, or that Ned might not, and to think of Lynisa, parentless, being at the mercy of her bastard brother and lords who might not always be so devoted to her was enough to give Lysa nightmares. Catelyn and Father and Uncle Brynden had always thought her dreamy and naive. Even Ned thought so. But Lysa was more aware than others gave her credit for, and she had grown up with no mother and a distant father. She did not want the same for her own daughter.

But it was easy enough to pretend an infant did not exist, and Ned was wise enough to never bring Jon around her and Lynisa, although she could not stop her husband from going to see his son. Ned had been nothing but kind and honorable towards her since her arrival at Winterfell, but Jon’s mother stood between them, dead and buried though the woman might be, and Lysa feared she always would. 

How could she compete with a ghost? How could she ever hope to have her husband’s love, when he’d cared so much for another? In time, perhaps, his feelings for the woman might fade, but… Petyr had longed after Catelyn for years, Lysa could see it now, and Jon Snow’s mother was no more reachable to Ned than Catelyn was to Petyr. 

But summer had begun now, and the morning of Lynisa’s first name day dawned clear and bright. Summer in the North was nothing like summer in the Riverlands- it still snowed, for example, although infrequently and usually only very lightly- Lysa was unused to still needing a cloak in summer, but Maester Luwin said this was like to be a short summer, so she supposed it was good that she wouldn’t get used to wearing light, airy gowns.

Even when she and Ned did not lie together as husband and wife, they still slept in the same bed- Lysa had started this herself, on her first night at Winterfell. She’d been distraught and furious with Ned, but the castle was cold and she did not want to sleep alone. To his credit, he had said nothing, and made no moves to touch her, although by now they regularly awoke with their limbs intertwined. 

This morning was much the same; Ned had woke first, as usual, and was already gone by the time Lysa roused herself. As of late she had finally conceded to letting Lynisa spend most nights in the nursery, although it made her uncomfortable to think of her sleeping all alone. Still, Lynisa was in the eyes of everyone a shy but sweet toddler. She had grown a great bit- it seemed likely that she would be a tall child and woman, which Lysa appreciated, being fairly petite herself. 

She could stand by herself and had already been caught taking a few tentative, wobbling steps. She even tried to brush her own dark auburn curls at times, which Lysa cooed over. She was trying to wean her off her breasts as well, although it was difficult to admit that her baby was becoming a little girl. Lysa tried not to worry, but she knew it was not unusual for a child to never see a second name day, and just kept telling herself that the older Lynisa got and remained healthy, the better the chances were.

Lysa changed into a simple, rich Tully blue gown with the help of a maid, binding her long hair into a braid down her back, and then hurried down the corridor to the nursery, where Lynisa babbled softly in the arms of another maid, a shy girl about Lysa’s age named Hana. “She was asking for you as soon as she woke, milady,” Hana said with a small smile, handing Lynisa over to her mother, who kissed her on the forehead and smoothed back her errant curls.

“Of course you were, sweetling, isn’t that right?”

“Mama,” Lynisa said in delight, putting a chubby hand on Lysa’s slender neck, and Lysa kissed her again on the cheek. “Papa?” the toddler asked as they left the room, and Lysa nodded. “Let’s go find him, love.”

She heard Ned’s tell-tale somber tones, even when he was light-hearted and laughing, as they came down a winding staircase, and Lysa put her squirming daughter down with a laugh before she realized where the toddler, who started off walking tremulously before reverting to a crawl, was headed. 

“Lynisa!”

Her husband came out of the bastard’s room with the boy in his arms, and knelt down to greet his daughter, who beamed at the sight of him, and waved shyly at the other babe, who simply looked on. Lysa felt her smile curdle into a pinch-lipped frown at the sight of the two interacting, but approached them all the same. “We were looking for you, my lord.”

“It’s a very special day,” he smiled as he scooped up Lynisa in the other arm and rose holding both children.

The sight of the usually grim Ned Stark with a happy babe in each arm should have flooded her heart with amusement and affection for him, for he was a good, loving father, and she could not complain that he favored his son over his daughter- Ned treated them exactly the same. And that was the problem. 

“Yes,” she was proud of herself for keeping her tone composed and even- Catelyn would have been even prouder. “I’m very glad you’re here to see Lynisa’s first nameday, since you could not be present for her birth.”

It wasn’t fair of her, and they both knew it, but for the sake of the children she did not make any more snide comments, and Ned held his tongue. Besides, she thought irritably, it was hardly fair of him to go straight to see his bastard son on what ought to be his daughter’s day.

Aside from that, the day went as smoothly as could be hoped for- not all the lords could be expected to be present for a child’s nameday feast, but the Cerwyns, Tallharts, Manderlys, Hornwoods, and Boltons were present, and smallfolk from the surrounding area had been invited as well. 

The feasting hall was much more crowded than usual, and Lysa sat in her place to the right of her lord, as the lady, with her head held high and her daughter in her lap. Lynisa seemed slightly timid around all the onlookers and attention and hid her head in her mother’s skirts, but looked up at the sound of her father speaking.

“To Lynisa Stark, heir to Winterfell,” Ned finished, raising his glass, and those seated at the lower tables echoed him, drinking before slamming their glasses down.

“Lady Lynisa! Winterfell’s little trout!” someone called out.

Lysa knew no offense was intended by it, but she stiffened all the same. She’s a wolf, she repeated to herself for the umpteenth time in her head. No matter who she takes after in appearance, she is a Stark by birth, a true Stark, and that trumps all else. 

Lynisa was presented with gifts- fine dresses for when she was a bit older and elaborately carved wooden toys, numerous dolls and ribbons, and Lysa and Ned smiled and graciously accepted each one, although both were relieved when the train of presents was over with.

“I’ve already gotten several offers for her hand,” Ned told her quietly during one of the later courses, when Lynisa was dozing off in Lysa’s lap.

She looked at him in shock, although she knew she shouldn’t have been very surprised. “Who?”

“Medger Cerwyn’s wife just birthed a healthy boy. Halys Hornwood’s boy Daryn is six. Little Benfred Tallhart is three. And Roose Bolton put forth his heir as well, a lad of five.” Ned sighed. “I made no promises, of course.”

“Yes, of course!” Lysa felt her hold on her drowsy daughter tighten slightly. “She’s just a babe. I- I suppose she must marry Northron, but-,”

“There’s no need to discuss her marrying anywhere as of yet,” he said firmly, and reassuringly. “My father had Southron ambitions for his children, and-,” he cut himself off and shook his head. “Benjen will be returning from Old Castle soon. He’s sixteen now, and a man grown. It will be good to have him home again.”

Lysa jumped on the chance to change the subject. “I’ve looked forward so to meeting him. Is he betrothed to anyone?”

Ned shook his head. “He was the third son and young still when the war broke out. He has some notion of joining the Night’s Watch-,”

“You can’t allow him to,” Lysa exclaimed in shock. “He’s a Stark!”

“He’s not a boy whom I can forbid-,”

“Ned,” she said pointedly. “You and he are the only surviving children of your father. You married a Southroner. Your lords will expect a marriage to one of them. They will surely see it as a slight otherwise.”

“I cannot force him-,”

“Of course not, but you can encourage him,” she insisted. “I imagine coming home will be painful for him, after all that has happened, and I cannot blame him. But he should marry.”

“Who would you suggest then?” Ned demanded, and Lysa tilted her head slightly in acceptance of his challenge.

“Lord Cerwyn’s daughter is yet unwed, is she not? I saw her here tonight. She cannot be any older than I am.” Lysa had not wasted her six months here and neglected to get to know the current members of the Northron houses. Jonelle Cerwyn was no great beauty, but she was no beast, either, and the Cerwyns were a powerful and loyal ally to House Stark.

To her satisfaction, Ned seemed surprised at her quick retort, and did seem to be considering what she had said. “You would have me put her forth to him.”

“There cannot be any harm in it. Ask her father if she might stay on after they return home, so that she will be here when Benjen arrives. If they do not like each other at all, then fine, let him do what he likes. There are not many yet unwed maidens- the war made people nervous,” Lysa reasoned. “But he should at least consider her before fleeing to the Wall.” She hesitated for a moment. “You could give him Moat Cailin.”

Ned snorted. “That’s a derelict ruin, Lysa. He would not thank me for it.”

“There are men aplenty to help rebuild it,” she countered. “I will not pretend to have a head for battle strategy, but should fighting in the South ever break out again- I would feel safer if a Stark held the chokepoint of the region. We all would, surely.”

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, listening to the music change into dancing songs as laughing people pushed back tables and chairs and benches to make room for the dancing. 

“I will think on it,” Ned said finally, as Lysa handed a now fast asleep Lynisa to a waiting Hana with a smile, lest the toddler be awakened by the loud music and voices. 

“Thank you,” she replied with a small, triumphant smile, and when the cries for the lord and lady of Winterfell to lead the dancing went up, accepted her husband’s hand. Ned was not any more graceful than he had been at their wedding, but she thought they danced well together all the same, and when he picked her up by the waist while they twirled she laughed freely and kissed him, something she had not done in some time.

In the next few weeks, Lysa’s moonblood did not come, Benjen Stark returned home, and she began to hope again.


	7. Chapter 7

By the time the crown prince was celebrating his first name-day, Catelyn was pregnant again. As far as she could tell, this babe had been conceived during a four month stay in King’s Landing, and she was particularly thrilled when she realized her moonblood was late, because she knew Jon would likely insist she stay in the Vale for the duration of the pregnancy, and she couldn’t wait to get away from court. 

Cersei Baratheon did not keep many ladies, and so it usually fell to Catelyn to keep the queen company, a task she was not altogether very fond of. It was clear the woman loved her infant son, almost obsessively so- she nursed him herself and was particularly stringent about who was allowed to care for or even hold the babe. 

Catelyn had seen her permit the king to hold little Joffrey perhaps once or twice, although the man didn’t seem very interested in the boy to begin with. Joffrey Baratheon’s look was all Lannister, with a shock of blonde curls, much like Donnel, although the younger boy’s hair was more honeyed in shade and his eyes were his mother’s striking green. He was a fretful, ill-tempered babe besides that, and only seemed really content when in the arms of his mother.

Catelyn had learned that the safest and most effective way to deal with the queen was to simply hold her tongue and nod passively whenever possible. Cersei did not intimidate her, but she was not foolish enough to want to make an outright enemy of the woman, either. She thought the queen resented her for her seemingly happy marriage and for being able to escape back to the Eyrie when she pleased. 

That much was evident from the woman’s constant jabs about Catelyn’s far older husband. Catelyn resisted the urge to make some pointed comment about Cersei’s marriage, and simply bore it with a placid smile. Let the queen think her a fool shackled to a decrepit old man.

She was cautious, and did not tell Jon her suspicions until she began to be ill in the mornings and had it confirmed by young Maester Colemon. When she did Jon’s lined face broke into a broad smile and she let herself grin happily as well as he embraced her.

“Another son or daughter,” he said with quiet amazement. “I had not- I had not even dreamed to be this happy as a husband- as a father, Cat. I will ask Robert for his leave when you are further along, but you should have Agnes start packing your things tonight. I’m sure the queen will understand.”

Catelyn had no wish to inform Queen Cersei of the pregnancy, but did so the following morning, as Donnel, two and a half, sat on her lap and picked at his eggs.

“Of course,” said the blonde woman coolly, flicking an irritable look down at the rambunctious toddler in Catelyn’s lap. “You will be dearly missed at court, of course. When you return, perhaps little Donnel will have learned to mind his manners.”

Catelyn bit back the retort on the top of her tongue- Donnel was a good boy, and he obeyed his mother and father, he simply didn’t like the queen- and nodded graciously. “Thank you, Your Grace. You have been very good to me.”

Robert insisted on congratulating her himself on the pregnancy, expressing his wishes that Jon would be blessed with another strong son, and gifted Donnel with a miniature bow and some toy arrows. Catelyn could not say that she liked Robert- he was crass and crude and she had seen him raise a hand to Cersei before, however much she detested the woman- but he had always been very good to Donnel, who he treated as a nephew of sorts, and the little boy adored ‘Uncle Rob’. 

The voyage back to the Vale by ship was torturous- she’d bid a slightly tearful goodbye to Jon, which she blamed the pregnancy for, and she was disastrously sea-sick, while Donnel was restless and temperamental due to being cooped up in a small cabin. She felt frayed and irritable by the time she landed in Gulltown. The docks were packed, and while she was trying to find Uncle Brynden and his escort of knights in the crowd, she was a lone woman with a crying, tired toddler in her arms, and it was difficult to fight her way through-

“Cat!” someone called out to her right, and she broke through the group of fisherman nearest her with a relieved, tired smile, expecting to see her uncle-

Her heart dropped, and she instinctively took a step backwards. It was Petyr.

The last time she’d seen him she’d been eighteen, a girl who thought herself a woman. Now Catelyn was twenty one, and the Petyr standing before her was seventeen, a man grown, not an obsessed boy. For a few moments she was gripped by a peculiar sort of terror, as if her legs had turned to lead, but as he approached, grinning, it hardened into white hot fury.

“Catelyn, I’ve missed you so-,”

Catelyn had never raised a hand to another person in her life, even during childhood squabbles with Lysa or Edmure. Now she slapped Petyr Baelish across his smiling face so hard that she stunned even herself. He lapsed into shocked silence, murky green-gray eyes full of raw hurt and something akin to outrage, as if he had no memory of what had happened, what he’d done to her-

“Cat,” he finally murmured. “What’s happened to you?” He looked at her as if she were horrifically scarred or disfigured, but she saw the way his gaze darkened as he looked at Donnel, who had stopped crying, sky blue eyes wide as he took in the stranger.

“Get away from me, Petyr,” she spat, about to turn on her heel and disappear into the crowd. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I’m sorry, Cat,” he burst out, and she paused, her turn to look shocked. Was it possible that he actually regretted what he’d done that night? That now that he was older he understood exactly what he’d-

“I’m sorry your father made you kill our son,” he continued, and Catelyn just gaped at him. “I know it wasn’t your choice, you would never- You don’t understand, I asked him to see us wed, I told him I would take care of you, but he refused,” Here his voice broke a little in genuine rage, “He said I wasn’t worthy of you, that he’d never marry his eldest daughter to a mere Baelish who cajoled her into bed.”

He really does hate Father, Catelyn realized then, the man who practically raised him. He thinks I- Gods, he asked Father for my hand and Father refused- whatever her feelings towards her father, who she had not seen or spoken to aside from one or two polite letters informing him that she was happy in her marriage and that his grandson was doing well, she was grateful that he had not been swayed into allowing Petyr to marry her. She couldn’t even imagine what her life would have been like.

“But I’m here now, and I won’t lose you again,” he continued wildly. “I was appointed master of customs here, Cat, and it’s close enough to the Eyrie- I can come see you, while your husband,” he sneered the word, “Is away at court. You’ll never have to be alone again, we can-,”

“I never carried your child, Petyr,” she hissed. “Are you mad? There was no way to tell either way- you ruined me, and you blame my father for not giving me to you like a mare or a cow? You-,” she wanted very badly to hit him again, but she wouldn’t let herself act like some common fisherwoman. They would attract an audience if this kept up, and she could only imagine what Jon would think.

He just looked at her, brow furrowed, and she knew then that he truly didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. In his eyes, it had all been some grand romantic escapade with a tragic ending, where she was married off and he was forced away, like the hero in some tale. He didn’t realize that he had been, and still was, the villain in hers.

“We can go somewhere where we can speak in private,” he assured her in a quieter tone, taking her hand. “Then you-,”

Catelyn jerked her hand away, shaking her head fiercely and backing away from him. “Don’t touch me, Petyr. I am not-,”

“Cat?”

“Lady Catelyn!”

She turned in relief at the sound of familiar voices, seeing her uncle riding up towards her on his black stallion, and when she glanced back, Petyr was gone, melted into the crowd. Wary of who might be listening, she did not tell Brynden of it until they were back at the Eyrie once more, sequestered away in her husband’s quiet solar.

“I’ll go down to Gulltown myself- why didn’t you tell me sooner, Cat?” he demanded angrily, stalking away to stare out the window at the mountains surrounding them.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. “I don’t wish for him to lose his position, I just want him to keep away.” She should have been colder, but master of customs was an impressive position for a Baelish, and while she never wanted to see Petyr again, she didn’t wish to see him ruined. He could be a successful, powerful man someday, it was just his fixation with her- she hated what he’d done, but could she hate someone she’d known and loved as a brother for so long?

Brynden Tully scowled. “Catelyn-,”

“He is no threat to me or anyone else where he is currently,” she reasoned, trying to stay calm. “If you do something rash I will have to explain it all to Jon when he comes and- and-,”

“Alright,” the man sighed. “We’ll keep this between us. You should be worrying about the babe, not this nonsense.”

Catelyn did worry about the babe, but the pregnancy went smoothly. She felt it dragged on more than Donnel’s had, but perhaps that was because she did not have Lysa to share it with. She’d written her sister to tell her of it, but Lysa had gotten with child and miscarried twice since having Lynisa, and she would not rub salt in her sister’s wounds. 

She knew Ned Stark was a good man, but he was a callous, foolish man for parading his bastard around like a trueborn son while her sister grieved and worried over what others thought of her inability to give him a male heir. Perhaps she could visit Lysa with Uncle Brynden after this babe was born, when it was old enough to travel.

Donnel Arryn had been a week or two early, but Catelyn’s next child was nearly a week late. She was relieved when the familiar labor pains began and her water broke, although her only comforts were her handmaids and Anya Waynwood, who was in her early forties and had become a good friend of Catelyn’s when she had first settled into the Vale.

Jon had left King’s Landing a month prior, but a storm had held his ship up, and when he burst into the room, his daughter was already half a day old.

“I thought to name her Alys,” Catelyn said hoarsely, looking up from the swaddled infant in her arms, whose thin hair was as fair as Donnel’s, if not even paler. “For your sister.”

Jon approached slowly and sat on the edge of the bed as she passed the tiny girl to him, before looking at her. “I would like that very much, Cat.”

“Good,” she breathed, and all thoughts of Petyr Baelish were forgotten then, as she looked at her daughter’s face.


	8. Chapter 8

When Lysa finally gave House Stark a trueborn son, Lynisa was four, and it was her fourth pregnancy. The previous two had ended in blood and tears- the first, when Lynisa had been newly one, had only lasted two moons, and the second, when Lynisa was three, had lasted four and a half moons, and the maester had declared, the tiny, dead babe a deformed boy. 

Lysa was sure the losses would have driven her entirely mad had it not been for her daughter, who grew and thrived and was so miraculously innocent, so seemingly untouched by anything sad or evil, that she had to hold on. She had to keep her senses, for Lynisa. She needed her mother. 

Ned had done as much as he could to ease her pain, and while she had screamed and screamed at him after the second miscarriage, although she knew there was nothing either of them could have done to prevent it, he had remained resolute, letting her beat at his chest and scratch at his face while she was wracked with sobs.

He only showed anger in return when she accused Ashara Dayne of being his bastard’s mother, for that was what the servants whispered, that the legendary beauty with the violet eyes had thrown herself into the sea after he’d taken her son away. His legitimate fury at the mention of the woman had all but confirmed it in Lysa’s mind- he had loved the Dornish woman more than he could ever love her, would ever love her.

And yet as much as she tried to hate Jon Snow, she did not. He was a quiet boy, who always seemed all but mute in her presence, and yet he was never far from Lynisa’s side, and although it made Lysa sick to see them playing together, she tolerated it for her daughter’s sake, for Lynisa did not have many playmates- she was what could be referred to as an ‘old soul’, and wasn’t prone to running around wildly or the fits of giggles that other little girls and boys indulged in. It frightened Lysa a little, to have a child so melancholy, but when Lynisa and Jon played together they both brightened and came out of their shells.

She did not hate Jon Snow, but she did hate her husband, all through her fourth and final pregnancy. Part of her, she felt, almost wished for something terrible to happen, something she could definitely blame him for, but the pregnancy progressed smoothly, almost as smoothly as her first, although she was much bigger this time, showing far earlier.

When Maester Luwin suggested she might be carrying twins, she nearly fainted. She wasn’t sure if her body could even handle birthing two children, one after another. She was terrified that she would die, and them with her. If she died and the twins lived, or even if only one lived, perhaps, a dark little voice suggested to her, late at night, as she lay next to Ned and seethed with resentment and fear, it might be for the best. Even better if she left behind a son. Let him have his son, and his daughter, and his bastard, and let her be forgotten.

But then she thought of Lynisa and was even more determined to live.

Despite her anger towards him, Lysa still wanted Ned in the room as she gave birth, and to his credit he did not protest, and remained at her side the entire time. The pain was awful, and there was so much blood she felt as though she couldn’t possibly have any left, but she remained conscious long enough to see her children- first a smaller, weaker boy, and then a bigger, stronger girl. 

Then she felt the darkness pulling at the edges of her vision, and was barely aware of the reedy cries of the babes and Ned’s panicked shouts and the maester calling for more cloth to help staunch the bleeding.

When she awoke a full day later Maester Luwin informed her grimly that she had barely survived her bleeding, and that she would never have another child.

“I’m barren?” she repeated numbly, and sank back into the pillows with a weak nod. She had a son. That was all that mattered.

The boy was named Rickard, and the girl Branda. Branda was the bigger and healthier of the two, with Ned’s dark hair and Lysa’s blue eyes, although they leaned a little more grey-blue, and Rickard was the frailer, with Lysa’s ruddy hair and his father and older sister’s steely grey eyes, but he quickly caught up.

Lynisa was enchanted with her siblings, and Jon regarded them carefully, gently patting a wailing Rickard’s back, and Lysa was bed-bound for a full month, gaunt and pale. Ned read to her at night, and brought the children in in the mornings to wake her. She felt as though she’d bled the hate and anger towards him out with the twins, and now felt nothing but a hollow sort of feeling.

Her ladies came to see her frequently. She did not have many of them, but she loved them for the companionship they provided, and they were all kind to her. 

Chief among them was Jonelle Cerywn, now Stark, who’d married Benjen and who seemed happy enough to live with them while the work on Moat Cailin continued. They had one daughter so far, a girl of one named Gilliane. 

The other was Sybelle Locke, who was distantly related to Ned through his Locke grandmother, and who was a devout girl of twelve, only recently flowered. She’d grown up around Benjen while he fostered at Old Castle, and teased him like any younger sister would. 

And then there were the two eldest Mormont sisters, Dacey, who was fifteen, and Alysane, who was thirteen. Both could fight and hunt as well as any man, and Dacey had shown Lysa how to wield a bow quite accurately, while Alysane had offered to show her how to defend herself with a dagger, should the need ever arise.

When she was finally deemed able to leave her chambers again, she went to find Ned in the godswood, where she thought he’d likely be. There’d been an execution he’d gone to- a deserter of the Night’s Watch. She saw him, hunched over, cleaning his precious sword, and made no sound as she approached, the only give away the the crunches of twigs underfoot. He turned, startled, and rose at the sight of her.

“I did not think-,”

“Maester Luwin says I am well enough to go about my duties as lady of Winterfell,” she said coldly. It was a cool spring afternoon, but she felt as though it were still the dead of winter.

“Then I’m pleased,” he said a bit unsteadily, a sort of vulnerable look in his usually grave eyes that made her almost feel cruel.

There was a silence, and then he spoke again. “Lysa, I-,”

“No, my lord husband,” she snapped. “You will listen. I do not ask that you love me. This marriage was neither of our choice or will, and I know we can never return to the way things were before you… before you returned to the war. All I ask for is your respect as your wife.”

He was tense, and she knew he expected her to ask him again to send Jon away.

“I don’t care about Jon Snow,” she almost hissed. “Not in the way that you think, Ned. I care about you, and what you did. I cannot go on like this anymore. I almost died for you in the birthing bed. I fought my battle there and I nearly lost it, but I gave you an heir and a second daughter.”

“Lysa,” he breathed, as if in horror, “Lysa, I would never-,”

“And I know you love our children,” she continued, fighting to keep her voice from breaking. “And I know that you do not love me, not the way you loved Jon’s mother, but you must- All I’m asking for is the truth. Just tell me the truth of it, tell me her name, say it aloud, and we can put it behind us. We may never love each other, but I cannot respect you as long as I do not know. Please, Ned. It’s been four years. Lay her to rest.”

He was frozen, staring at her with his mouth slightly open, sword still in hand, and she suddenly regretted ever saying any of it. He’d surely hate her now, demand to know what she thought she was doing, trying to order him to-

“Alright,” he finally said in a broken, ragged voice, sitting down, and laying Ice across his lap. “You are owed the truth, Lysa. I was- I was terrified that I would lose you while you birthed the twins, and still terrified for a long time afterwards, but now I see that I will lose you anyways if I keep this from you any longer, and I cannot bear it. I promised her-,” he sucked in a breath and continued, “I promised her, but you were right, years ago. I promised you first. I pray she will forgive me.” He looked up at her fiercely. “None of this must ever be repeated, Lysa. You must swear to me that you will take this to your grave.”

“I swear on my gods and yours,” she said, wondering kind of promise he had made after all, if he believed that to so much as say the name of Jon’s mother would be breaking it.

Ned said nothing for another moment, before closing his eyes briefly, as if coming to terms with what he was about to say, and continuing. “Jon’s mother is not Ashara Dayne, or any Dornishwoman.”

Lysa was silent, so taut with tension she felt like an arrow about to be released.

“His mother is- was- Lyanna. My sister.”

Lysa gave an involuntary cry of shock, her hands flying up to her mouth in horror, and sank to her knees before him. “Ned-,” she gasped. “Ned, how-,”

“When I found her, in that tower, the babe was barely a day old. She’d been bleeding out for hours, delirious with fever. There was no maester or midwife to tend to her, only a few terrified servants. He left her-,” His voice almost became a broken sort of growl then, and Lysa realized who he was referring to, and it suddenly all made far too much sense. 

“He left her there,” Ned continued, “Before he returned to fight the Battle of the Trident. I suppose- I suppose he told her that when he returned, victorious, she would be his queen and their son raised as a prince, not a bastard. I do not know if he ever wed her-”

“But the prince was wed to Elia Martell,” Lysa hissed.

“Aye, but it would not be the first time a Targaryen took a second bride,” Ned murmured dully. “I suppose it matters not, either way. She was barely sixteen and dying, Lysa. She thought I was our father at first, or Brandon, come to save her. Then, when she realized it was me-,” Tears were trickling down his cheeks now, like melting snow.

“The prince abducted her,” Lysa whispered in horror, “And raped her so she would get with his child?”

“I don’t know,” he burst out with, “I will never know. All she could say was ‘Promise me, Ned. Promise me you will protect him, please.’ She chanted it like a prayer as she died. Mayhaps he did steal her away and violate her, or mayhaps he convinced her that he loved her truly, and she was desperate to not wed Robert- it may have been both. She may have come willingly with him at first, but I cannot- the Lyanna I knew would not have been content to sit in a tower while her father and brother died and the kingdoms were at war. She could have wanted to come home, whether she was bearing the prince’s bastard or not. I wish more than anything that she could have- that she could have had her babe here, that she could have died where she was born and raised.”

Lysa watched his tears in horrible fascination. “But I don’t understand- why did she think-,”

“Robert,” Ned said darkly. “She was certain Robert would kill the boy for being Rhaegar’s son.”

“But Robert loved her! Surely he would have-,”

“He believed he loved her,” Ned corrected sharply. “He never knew her truly. And I do not think his ‘love’ would have saved Jon’s life. Had I not seen how he reacted to the deaths of Princess Elia and her children, I would not have feared so, but he was a changed man. Even before he knew Lyanna was dead, he had changed. Rhaegar- killing Rhaegar may have saved us all, but it did not save him. I loved Robert as a brother- I still love him- but if he knew who Jon was, he would kill him, and mayhaps me as well. And you,” he added, shaking his head. “I could not put you at risk like that. If you never knew, if you believed Jon was my bastard, there was some hope that he might spare you, if the truth ever came out.”

“You… you were trying to protect me?” Lysa said in shock.

“I love you,” he snapped. “Gods- Lysa, I love you. Aye, not at first, when we were little more than strangers, but even then, I still wanted to protect you, to keep you safe. I only tell you this now because I cannot stand the idea of you hating me for the rest of our lives.”

She didn’t know what to think, what to say. She knew he was not lying, that he really believed that he had done what was best for all of them, but it did not change the fact that he had lied to remorselessly for the past four years, leading her to believe that her daughter’s future was at risk, that he had such open disrespect for her and her position as his wife that he would raise his bastard with their trueborn children-

“Eddard, how could you?” she asked brokenly. “You- you lied to me, and you kept lying, I pleaded with you-,”

“It hurt me, Lysa, of course it did,” he argued, “But there was no other choice-,”

“You could have told me the truth from the start!”

“I barely knew you, I did not know-,”

She recoiled. “You thought I would betray you?!”

“No! But I- please, you must try to understand. Lyanna was my sister and I loved her, and she was dead, and to dishonor the promise I made to her would have felt like spitting on her grave.”

“She made you promise to protect Jon Snow, not to deceive me,” Lysa snapped. 

“If it were your sister- if it were Catelyn, what would you have done?” he demanded fiercely.

Lysa went very still. What… what would she have done? If it had been Catelyn, dying, begging her to keep her son safe… Would she have been able to lie like that? For years, for the sake of her nephew?

“I’m sorry, Lysa,” Ned said very quietly. “You are right. What I’ve done is unforgivable, but now you know the truth.”

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for it,” Lysa took his hand slowly, looking up at him. “You did hurt me, as much as if you’d stabbed me in the heart. But I- I understand why you did what you did, and I understand that you saw no other choice. Your duty was to me, but you had a duty to her as well.”

Family, duty, honor. She still remembered.

“We’ll keep Jon Snow safe,” she continued. “For as long as we both live. I am your wife. Your promises are mine as well. He will always have a home here”

“Thank you,” breathed Ned, and they shared a ghost of a kiss in the shade of one of the silent weirwood trees.


	9. Chapter 9

Summer in the Vale was one of Catelyn’s favorite times. Summer there was cooler than it had ever been in the Riverlands, dipping into almost cold at night, when the wind still sometimes moaned outside as it rattled around the mountains. But the Eyrie’s gardens were green and beautiful and the rolling hills at the base of the Vale were dotted with blue and violet and lavender wildflowers. 

It also meant, however, that for much of the past ten years, her children had been rarely indoors, and it seemed as though she were always calling for at least one of them. 

“Alys!” she called, stepping into one of the many rocky courtyards. Only distant laughter echoed in response to her. She recognized one voice shouting in delight over something. “Osric!” Smiling, Catelyn shook her head, turning back into the entrance she’d just come out of, and continuing down the shadowed corridor, although patches of late afternoon sunlight were pouring in.

“The children are playing at the fountain, milady,” a passing maid told her with a small smile, and she graciously nodded her thanks, breaking into a broad grin as she picked up her skirts and hurried around a corner, down a short flight of stairs, and into the corner of the gardens where a statue of Ronnel Arryn, the King Who Flew, stood in cold white marble.

Three of her five children were playing at the base of it. Alys, tall and fair, even at eleven, stood on the edge of it, balancing precariously as she ‘knighted’ her giggling younger brothers with a broken broom handle. Osric was nine and Roland seven, but they were as close as twins, although they looked very different- like Donnel and Alys, Osric had the pale blonde hair of his father and keen, sky blue eyes. 

Roland took after Catelyn in appearance; his hair was ruddy, rather than blonde, and his eyes were a slightly darker, deeper shade of blue, which made his skin look even paler. He was also the skinner of the two, with sharper, more angular features- Osric was more stocky, and often won whenever they play-wrestled. 

Catelyn recognized something of herself in Alys’s fond smile and the way she carried herself, however much her daughter might look all Arryn. However, Alys reminded her a bit more of Lysa as a young girl- she was more dreamy than serious, inquisitive and impulsive, not quite a tomboy but too giddy and mischievous to be quite the little proper lady, either. Catelyn loved her for it, even as she beheld them with her hands on her hips in exasperation.

“Children! I’ve been looking for you everywhere- Septa Dorene has been waiting for near an hour for you to come to your lessons.”

They at least had the grace to attempt to look apologetic, although Catelyn had her doubts on how genuine it might be. She could hardly blame them- Septa Dorene was approaching sixty years, and had a voice like a dry rasp of parchment. Still, she couldn’t have the heirs to the Vale neglecting their studies, although she did admit to letting them get away with far more when their father was home. But Jon had only stayed a fortnight during his visit two moons prior, although he had promised to be home again soon- there was some urgent business, he’d said, that had to be taken care of, and then he could rest easy for a while once more.

Catelyn had asked him about it privately, but Jon had been uncharacteristically vague, and she had let it go, although she had been annoyed. Her husband was getting on in years and she did have to accept that he could not include her in every aspect of his work as Robert’s Hand. And she’d been busy enough for the past few years, since Sharra’s birth- there was a four year gap between her youngest child and the next youngest, Roland, and adjusting to having an infant in the family again had been difficult, for a while, although Alys had been a great help.

But now Sharra was three, going on four, and while she was fairly sure that she would not have another child, she was content. Two daughters and three sons was nothing to scoff at, and her children loved their parents and one another, and were happy, and safe, and she couldn’t ask for much more. 

“We’re sorry, Mother,” Osric said earnestly, although he looked to be fighting back a grin- Osric was always the most rambunctious of her children, the one who japed and jested the most, always smiling, and never saddened for long. “But Alys said she’d make me and Ro knights, because she’s Good Queen Alysanne in our game, and-,”

“It was her idea,” Roland piped up, with a sly look directed at his older sister, who pulled a face at him. Roland was devious, at times, and very, very clever, too clever for his own good, Catelyn usually thought with a small amount of alarm, but she loved him all the same, for Roland was quieter and more reserved as well, and had clung to her a good deal as a smaller child, when he had often been sickly. He was hale enough now, but she did not think he would ever be a knight in truth, although she was certain he would go very far at court, perhaps even sit on the Small Council someday. 

“They begged and pleaded, Mother,” Alys retorted, although she didn’t look genuinely irritated- like Osric, it was hard for Alys to ever be truly angry or hurt for long. “But you are right, we should not have slipped away- only Septa always scolds me for things I can’t help, like my handwriting!”

“You could help your handwriting if you practiced it a little more, instead of playing at knighting little boys,” Catelyn said dryly, but hugged her daughter back when she nimbly hopped down from her perch to embrace her mother. “Now go on, all of you- you’ve only an hour or two of lessons left before sunset, and then we’ll have dinner with Uncle Brynden.”

“Did he find those bandits?” Osric asked eagerly. “He said he’d come back with all their swords and horses!”

“You’ll have to find out,” Catelyn ruffled his curls, “After your lessons.”

She watched the three of them dash off, resisting the urge to call after them to walk, not run, and suddenly missed Donnel very much. It seemed like so recently he had been Osric or Roland’s age, playing with his sister in the gardens. But Donnel was fourteen, nearly fifteen, almost a man grown and fostering as a squire in the king’s own household, and he would never be that little boy again, learning to ride a pony under his great-uncle’s tutelage.

Jon had promised to bring Donnel with him the next time that he came home, and it was easier for him and her oldest child to visit then to make the journey to King’s Landing with four spirited children. She exhaled slowly, breathing in the mountain air for a moment, and turned back to regard the statue of former lord of the Vale, before returning indoors, deciding that she’d see if Sharra had awoken from her nap. 

The raven from King’s Landing came as she was dressing for dinner, and she was surprised by the insistent knocking on her door, hurriedly adjusting a few errant strands of auburn hair before hurrying to open it.

“Cyril, what-,”

“It’s a letter from Maester Colemon, my lady,” the young man gasped breathlessly. “I didn’t open it, but-,”

Catelyn’s heart dropped and her stomach roiled. She wasn’t a fool- she had an elderly husband, healthy as the man might be for his age, and there could only be one reason as to why their maester had seen fit to write her so urgently.

“You’re dismissed,” she said hollowly, taking the letter from him with trembling hands, and shut and locked the door behind her before shakily sitting down on the bed and tearing open the wax seal. She scanned it quickly once, then again, expression growing more disturbed, before laying it down, hands in her lap, shaking. 

Jon was ill, gravely so, and had been worsening for the past few days. What Colemon had assumed was due to some bad meat seemed to be a sickness of the stomach, and her husband was now bed-bound and fever stricken. Catelyn realized, with growing horror, that while ravens traveled faster than horses or ships, Jon might already have passed. She would have to leave as soon as possible, and pack tonight.

She summoned a maidservant and instructed her to tell the children and Brynden that she could not join them for dinner, that their father was ill, and that she was going to be with him. Perhaps Jon had recovered, she thought wildly. He might still yet live. She would not frighten them when she didn’t even know for sure herself.

She rode with barely anything but the clothes on her back and a sturdy cloak, behind Brynden on his swift stallion, to Gulltown. What usually took a fortnight they accomplished in five days, by pushing the horse to the brink of exhaustion and themselves as well. Brynden tried to insist on accompanying her, but Catelyn refused. 

“Stay here and keep the children distracted,” she told him tiredly. “I don’t want them worrying after their father- I will send word of him as soon as I arrive. Don’t let Alys get too anxious, and make sure Roland doesn’t hide away with his books and brood.”

“Be safe, Little Cat.” Brynden kissed her forehead, grizzled, weathered face creased in worry as she rushed aboard the waiting ship, one of the smallest and fastest, that would reach King’s Landing in four days so long as the good weather held up.

Catelyn had not been at court since before her pregnancy with Sharra, but all she could think of was Jon, from the time she stepped onto the city’s docks to the moments she rode in through the Red Keep’s gates, with only two hired men as her escort. However, she was easily recognizable as the Hand’s wife, and she spotted Colemon pushing through the throng of people immediately as she practically scrambled down from the saddle.

“My lady-,”

“Where is he?” she demanded, wishing her voice did not sound so shrill, for everyone stared after her, murmuring amongst themselves.

The man’s expression crumpled. “Lady Catelyn, I am very sorry. I did all that I could, and Maester Pycelle worked tirelessly as well-,”

Catelyn wanted to fall to the ground, by some act of the gods managed to stay upright, although she wavered as the maester solemnly led her to where her husband’s body was laid out.

“Jon,” she murmured in shock as she beheld him, still and pale and suddenly much older than she had ever seen him has, his Hand’s pin glistening in the candle-light. “Oh Jon-,”

She took a papery, cold hand in her own and whispered a prayer to herself, for him, for her, and for the children, that they might get through this. Then she gently laid his hand back down, trying to reconcile her own shock and disbelief. Jon had been an old man, and all men had to be laid to rest eventually. He had had a good, long life, longer than many lived, and he had been happy, in no small part due to their children, for nearly a decade and a half. 

You are the regent of the Vale until Donnel comes of age, she told herself sternly. You must be strong through this, for-

Donnel. Her son.

She found him in the Tower of the Hand, in what had been Jon’s solar. He sat, slumped in a chair, head in his hands. Donnel’s curls had darkened some to a more sandy blond as he aged, but in truth she still saw him as her dear little boy, her precious eldest son, and held him as if he were four, not fourteen while he wept. 

“I- Mother, it happened so fast, I didn’t know what to- what to do- he didn’t even recognize me!”

“I know, sweetling,” she breathed, her chin resting on his head. Donnel was a head taller than her standing, broad and strong, but right now she could pretend he was a child once more, if only for a little. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, that I couldn’t see him, see you-,”

“I want to go home,” Donnel said in a low voice, almost pleading. “Mother, can’t we go home?”

Catelyn pulled away from him slightly for a moment, hands on his shoulders, examining his tear-stricken face. “Of course,” she said gently. “Of course we’ll go home, with- with your father, so he may be laid to rest there. I will needs speak with the King first, to request his leave for you-,”

Donnel considered Robert as akin to an uncle, and while Catelyn did not like it; she worried that his whoring and drinking would rub off on her sweet, somewhat sheltered son; she tolerated it well enough, especially given the fact that as of late there had been some discussion of a possible match between Donnel and Myrcella, Robert and Cersei’s only daughter. The girl was only eight, but Catelyn thought she would be a good match for Donnel, and for her son to marry a princess- well, she still did have a little of her Southron ambitions left, or had.

Now all she wanted was to go home to the Vale.

But Robert had been deep into his cups for days, grieving the loss of the man he had considered a father, and Catelyn was certainly not going to grovel at Cersei’s feet for permission to leave court. She would have waited, as much as it pained her, knowing her children were grieving the loss their father alone, if not for Petyr.

Petyr had been named to the Small Council several years earlier, and Catelyn had braced herself for a storm with it, certain he would not be able to restrain himself from making some comments to Jon, certain that she would have to tell her husband every awful detail. But he had not. Jon had only mentioned him off-handedly once or twice, and so, Catelyn had eventually concluded that Petyr must have finally moved on. It had been years, and he had made no further attempts to contact her. Mayhaps he had even married by now, had children of his own. 

She supposed it did not matter now that Jon was dead, she had thought bitterly, but all her assumptions came crashing down when he called on her.

“Lady Catelyn,” he said formally, as she stood in the doorway, unmoving, stone-faced. “All of the Small Council grieves with you, the king and queen most of all. Jon Arryn was a dear friend and valuable ally to the Iron Throne.”

Catelyn knew he had not moved on at all, just from the look in his eyes, the way he drank the sight of her in the way a dying man might water. After five children and over a decade of marriage, she had aged. She was not the young woman she had once been, but she was not old and wizened yet, either, and she knew she was still a slim and attractive woman for her age, all things considered. Petyr looked at her as though she had not aged a day since they had last spoken, since she had struck him, nearly cursed his very name.

She might have felt almost flattered, had she not been so repulsed. What man lusted after a widow, hid the triumphant smile in his eyes beyond an expression of false grief? Even the way he said Jon’s name-

A dangerous man, a chorus of voices whispered back to her in her mind.

“Leave me be, Lord Baelish,” she said, finally. “I am grieving, and I will soon be returning to my home-,”

“I’ve suggested to the king,” he said, with that same almost self-satisfied tone, “That you remain here, my lady. For your own benefit, while the matter of the Vale’s leadership is officially decided-,”

“My son,” she said sharply, “Lord Arryn’s heir, will rule when he comes of age.”

“Of course,” said Petyr with an almost careless shrug. “But a regent must be named in the meantime-,”

Suddenly she realized it. “I- I am his mother-,”

“My lady,” he said gently, his gray-green eyes following every helpless twitch of her hands, the expression of growing horror on her face. “As you said yourself, you are grieving your beloved husband, and you have four other children to tend to. Surely you will need assistance in governing, and few are better qualified than myself-,”

They will name him regent, she thought numbly, think me a hysterical woman, and send him home with me and Donnel and Jon’s corpse, and then- and then- For a brief moment she was eighteen again, weeping, as she scrubbed the bloodstains off her thighs.

Petyr smiled at her and gently reached out and squeezed her limp hand before taking his leave.

She fled with Donnel that very night.


	10. Chapter 10

Lysa could not help but be reminded of a day ten years earlier, before summer had been declared, and she had come into the godswood in search of her husband. It had intimidated her then, the grim weirwood trees and the unnatural stillness, no singing birds, no rustling of squirrels in the trees. It still did now, but she was uncertain and nervous due to something else other than the dim grove and the frightening trees with their blood red leaves. She lifted the skirts of her pale yellow gown and walked a bit faster, biting her lower lip as she finally saw Ned, wiping down his blade. 

Another deserter, another execution. Ned had insisted on taking Rickard to this one, saying he was old enough by far to witness it. Lysa had protested, but ultimately let the boy go. He was ten years old now, and Ned was right. She could not keep him a child forever. Jon and Theon Greyjoy, their ward, had seen men die at even younger. But neither Jon nor Theon were her sons. Rickard was special, he was her boy- his father’s heir. So was his twin sister, but Branda had always been a fiercely independent little girl, a Stark true and true. Rickard was a touch more like Lysa- there was a certain fragility to him, although he was perfectly healthy and plenty clever.

But the boys had come back pleased- they’d found direwolf pups, and Ned had permitted them to bring them home, four of them, even an albino one Jon had claimed for himself and already named Ghost. Lysa had wanted to protest this as well- direwolves were dangerous, and not like dogs to be tamed and taught a trick or two, but she could not bring herself to crush the children’s excitement. Even sober, serious Lynisa had brightened at being handed a pup, naming hers Summer. Branda had declared hers Nymeria, to no one’s surprise, and Rickard called his Grey Wind. 

Ned would not be pleased with her news- well, with half of it. The other half, she thought, might please him very much.

He looked up at her approach and smiled briefly, laying Ice flat across his lap. Lysa eyed the greatsword warily as she came to sit beside him at the base of the heart tree, without a care for her gown. She had others, and she was happy momentarily to sit beside her husband and rest her head on his wiry shoulder. Over the years she had grown to love Ned again- not in the way she had when they first met, with that girlish passion and longing, but in a more steady, solid sort of way, one unmarred by time. 

They had built this, together. They had three happy, hale children and they had kept Jon Snow safe and as content as a boy raised as a bastard could be. Lysa had counseled Ned to tell the boy the truth of his birth when he turned sixteen and became a man, and he had reluctantly agreed. 

“Better he hear it from your own lips,” she’d said, “It may soften the blow some.” She did not think Jon was the sort of boy to let the knowledge that he was the son of a prince go to his head- she had raised him, if not as her own son, then as she might a nephew, and while they would never be as close as she was to her own children, she was fond of the boy and thought him far more Stark than Targaryen.

“The children are still playing with their pups?” he asked dryly.

“Of course,” she sighed. “Very taken, all of them. Lynisa has always had a way with animals, so she is handling hers quite well, and Rickard and Branda are running reckless through the training yard with theirs already, wild things.”

“The twins or the wolves?” Ned snorted. 

She laughed. “When they act like beasts, they are your children, my lord.”

“Aye, but I seem to remember some tales of a girl known for being half-fish, she spent so much time swimming and mucking about in the mud-,”

His beard tickled her face when he pulled her close, and she squealed far too girlishly for a woman of her age before pulling back, remembering what she had come here for. Ned had sobered some too, and she knew he was about to speak of the execution before he even opened his mouth again.

“Rickard did not look away. I was pleased with him.”

“Of course he didn’t,” she said fiercely. Rickard took after her in appearance, much like Lynisa, although he lacked his older sister’s long face and his hair was more bronze than copper. His eyes, however, were cold Stark grey. Of her three children, only Branda, with her dark Stark curls and pouting Tully mouth, had inherited her mother’s watery blue eyes. ‘He is your heir, and always mindful of his duty.”

Rickard tried, at least. She knew Ned thought he took after Brandon, and Lysa was tempted to agree- her son was wild, impulsive, quick to anger and clung to grudges, but also charming and sharp-witted and handsome. At Winterfell they called him The Young Wolf, but Lysa knew that her husband saw The Wild Wolf born again, although he was named for his grandfather, not his uncle.

Branda was much like him, although her temper was far less severe- she was always smiling and laughing about something, and could never stay angry for long. But she had little interest in being a lady, and Lysa knew she likely indulged the girl too much, letting her take sword and dagger lessons from the Mormont sisters when they visited, letting her ride out with Rickard and Jon. But she was young still, unflowered, and Lysa wanted her to have a childhood free of burdens for as long as possible.

Ned, however, saw something of Lyanna in the girl, and not just in appearance, and Lysa often had to interject herself amidst father and daughter’s squabbles. Branda was not her aunt, she reminded her husband often, and sometimes herself. She would have a happier fate. They all would.

If anything, Lynisa had always been the easiest of their children, the most responsible and mild, but she was the eldest, and the eldest daughter at that, and so it was different for her. Lysa thought her a haunting beauty at fourteen, and while most of what she saw in her daughter was Ned Stark, there was some Catelyn Tully, she thought, to her as well. Lynisa was the one the others came to with their troubles, their woes. She could bring Rickard out of a black mood and persuade Branda to comb her tangled curls and put on a fine dress. She could ease some of Jon’s envy. 

And she was betrothed, and had been since the age of twelve, to Domeric Bolton. Lysa was still unsure about the match, but Ned would not have agreed to it without her blessing, and while she had no love for Roose Bolton, his son took more after his deceased Ryswell mother. Domeric was a fine horseman, and avid hunter, and had a quiet patience to him that suited Lynisa well. And her daughter seemed pleased with him. Perhaps not besotted or infatuated, but Lynisa was not one to give in to such things easily, and Lysa hoped that by the time the two wed, they would love each other. 

And she did feel somewhat more at ease, knowing the Boltons, whose loyalty was never quite assured, would be tied to their liege lords through marriage. Roose Bolton had seemed appeased by it, at any rate.

Ned was speaking of the dwindling Night’s Watch, and she broke out of her brooding to listen once more. When he mentioned Mance Rayder, she clutched his hand tightly, and he paused and changed the subject, knowing that the idea of him riding to war ever again upset her. The last time had been the Greyjoy Rebellion, when the twins were only a year old, and she had felt unbearably lost without him, until the day he returned victorious, a sullen Theon Greyjoy at his side. 

Lysa tried not to hold the fact that the boy was Ironborn against him, for the Riverlands knew fear of the Iron Islands well, and while she did not particularly like Theon, she had always treated him well, excepting the one time she had caught him trying to turn that Greyjoy smirk of his onto Lynisa, and had brought the seven hells down on him for it. But Theon treated Rickard and Branda, at least, as exasperating younger siblings, and if he and Jon disliked each other, well, at least it had never come to blows.

“What did you come to tell me, then?” Ned asked her gently, reading the worry on her face.

Lysa exhaled. “Jon Arryn is dead. I have word from King’s Landing of it, and likely a letter from Cat is on its way as well.”

Her husband recoiled as if struck, and she gripped his large hands in her own, letting him absorb the information. They had not seen Jon Arryn in years, nor had Lysa seen her sister, not since a visit that Catelyn had taken alone with her children before her youngest, Sharra, had been born. But Jon had been both father and brother to Ned, and Lysa had liked the man for treating her sister well, for giving her children to love, and for never holding her past against her.

Ned silently shook his head. “I… what of your sister and the children? Are they alright?”

“Robert only stated that Catelyn had returned to the Eyrie with Donnel to mourn, and that the lords of the Eyrie have named her the regent wardenness, until the boy is of age.”

“He must be nearly a man now- he is of an age with Lynisa.”

Lysa smiled sadly. “They share a name day.”

He sighed. “You.. you should go to her, Lysa. You are her sister, and she may need you- raising five children alone will not be an easy burden, and the youngest is little more than a toddling babe. You could take the children, so that they might see their cousins.”

Lysa’s heart leapt at the thought, but she shook her head. “She has Brynden, and he will be like a second father to the children. I would, Ned, but the king is riding here.” She hesitated. “Along with his household.”

He looked shocked for a moment, before breaking into a slow smile. “It has been seven long years since I last laid eyes on Robert.”

“He comes with the queen and the children,” she warned. “And the Lannister brothers.”

Ned snorted. “Well, the woman has always preferred her own family to that which she married into.”

“The woman,” Lysa sighed, “Is queen of the seven kingdoms, and I doubt she will be any more warm than she was the last time they visited.”

“She is no match for you, Lysa Stark,” he said firmly, and Lysa rolled her eyes.

“Of course not. But now we needs arrange a feast, and hunting parties, and singers- and the girls and I will need new gowns, or we will never hear the end of it from Robert’s proud lioness. And nearly all the liege lords will flock here, of course, to see their king- Benjen and Jonelle should ride here with the children as soon as they can, I will need Jonelle’s help with the arrangements-,” She was beginning to get overwhelmed just thinking of it. It was not often that Winterfell entertained the royal household.

Ned helped her to her feet, pressing a kiss to her brow. “It will all be well. And it will be good to see Robert and the children again.”

“Yes,” she said uncertainly. “Yes, I suppose it will.”

But later in the yard, she heard talk of what had befallen the mother of the direwolf pups- an antler pierced through the throat, and she could not help but worry, and anticipate word from the Eyrie all the more.


	11. Chapter 11

Catelyn did not allow herself to truly grieve until after the matter of the regent had been decided. As soon as she and Donnel returned home she had locked herself away to send ravens to every one of her husband’s liege lords, confirming the news of his death… excepting House Baelish, for obvious reasons. She could count on the Waynwoods and the Royces to back her through sheer friendship alone, as well as the Hunters, at least so long as Lord Eon lived. The Corbrays would support her and Donnel so long as it was in their best interests, as would the Belmores. 

The lords and ladies, of course, all expressed their shock and condolences to Catelyn and Donnel upon their arrival, and inquired after her other children, whom she kept away from the proceedings. Donnel looked more a boy in his grief; his eyes were raw and pained, although Catelyn had counseled her compassionate son that he needed to put on a strong front for their sworn houses. 

“Do not let them think you a mere boy,” she’d told him sternly, although she felt ripped in half herself. “This is your birthright, and I will not let anyone take it from you.”

Donnel had nodded, but had not quite looked as if he truly believed her.

In the end Houses Waynwood, Royce, Egen, Hersy, Hunter, Melcolm, Redfort, Templeton, and Sunderland, Corbray, Belmore, Moore, Pryor, Shett, Wydman, and Waxley all declared for her as regent. The Graftons and Lynderlys, as well as some of the Arryns of Gulltown, distant relatives of her late lord husband, were the only ones to raise any real protest, but there had been no official decree from the king as of yet, and they could not stand against the rest of the houses. 

Catelyn was almost surprised- she had expected to have to fight for her position; she was well-liked as Lady of the Eyrie, but she was not of the Vale, and Donnel had been away for most of the time since the age of eight or nine. Anya Waynwood told her the truth of the matter later.

“They all hope to marry you- the widowers, that is,” the older woman said dryly; she was well into her fifties, but her mind was every bit as sharp as it had been over ten years ago, when Catelyn had first come to the Vale. “And rule as the real Warden until Donnel comes of the age, to promote their own houses and wed him to one of their daughter or nieces.”

“I think Donnel will needs marry a girl from the Vale,” said Catelyn with a sigh. “I doubt Robert wants him for his daughter now that I’ve defied him, and even if he did, I would not send Donnel back there anytime soon. Alys should marry a Valeman as well, to show our commitment to them.”

“What I would suggest,” said Anya- the woman had startlingly dark blue eyes on her pale, wrinkled face, and now they were as calculated as ever- “Is that when they begin their courting in a few moons, that you approach Yohn Royce about a betrothal between Donnel and his daughter- Ysilla, I believe the girl is called. And for Alys,” she paused, “There is always young Harry.”

Harrold Hardyng was the last of his house and Anya’s ward; Catelyn had met the boy several times and thought him gallant and well-spoken, if a bit arrogant and proud. “I will consider it,” she said finally, “But there is talk of his…,” she inclined her head slightly, her eyes finishing the sentence.

“I will put an end to his wenching,” Anya said swiftly, looking somewhat taken aback, as if she had not thought the rumors would have traveled so extensively through the mountains. “Of course, we would not want Alys shamed.”

Catelyn felt some guilt over deciding his eldest son and daughter’s futures for them, but such had been the way with her and her sister, and most highborn children. They needed to maintain the support of their most powerful allies in the Vale, and that meant betrothals. She herself had no intention of ever remarrying, if she could help it, but she’d accepted that she might not have the choice, in the future. 

Still, she could not let a husband threaten Donnel’s future either. Nothing about this was simple, and more than anything, she wished Jon was here to guide her. He had always seemed to see the clearest way through any obstacle. Now she felt half-blind, as if she were only seeing part of the picture. If Jon had had to die, why couldn’t it have been after Donnel was old enough to reign securely on his own? If this had only happened in another five years or so, she wouldn’t have been so plagued with worries.

Donnel had told her after they’d returned to the Eyrie, somewhat haltingly, that Jon’s last words had been “The seed is strong”. He seemed troubled by it, although he swore he had no idea what his father was referring to, and Catelyn believed him. Her son was good and true and always strove to do what was right… and he was a terrible liar. But what could Jon have meant? She ought to have dismissed it as fever ramblings- perhaps he’d been referring to Donnel, that he was the heir he’d always longed for, a strong son to take his place. But still, something nagged at her. 

Her children had all taken their father’s death hardest, but she thought it affected her eldest two the most. Donnel had looked up to his father above all else, defended him fiercely- he’d gotten into a brawl with two other pages, she remembered, when he was ten, after one of them had mockingly insulted his father’s old age. 

That had been completely unlike Donnel- he had always been gentle, almost sweet, although he was well trained with a sword. She feared for him, at times, that his emotions would get the best of him, that he might be too merciful a lord, too soft. She could only hope now that Jon’s death would make his talons grow, not crack. The Vale could be a harsh place, and would not abide by a lord who was more dove than falcon.

Alys was completely heartbroken. Jon had treated her like a princess, and she’d adored him. She was furious with Catelyn for not taking her with her to King’s Landing, even if it had been too late, and had started to hyperventilate, gasping and shaking, upon seeing her father’s body laid out and covered with a shroud. Catelyn had tried to comfort her, but her daughter had only shrieked and pushed her away, running off, and Brynden had gone after her, promising Catelyn that he’d make sure she didn’t do anything rash.

Osric and Roland seemed more in shock than anything else, both of them silent and sullen, and staying by Catelyn’s side whenever possible, refusing to even speak of Jon, and Sharra, sweet little Sharra, did not seem to understand that her father was truly dead, and only kept asking when he was coming home and where he had gone, if he was not with the king anymore.

It was nearly three full months after she’d become a widow when Donnel came to her.one evening just after supper. Alys had picked at her food and asked to be excused early; not wanting to bicker with her at the moment, Catelyn had wearily agreed. Brynden had coaxed Osric and Roland away to bed, promising them tales of battle, leaving her to put her youngest to bed. 

She laid Sharra down her small bed, stroking back her daughter’s auburn curls. Like Roland, Sharra took after Catelyn in appearance, and she hummed softly as the child’s eyes fluttered closed. She remained like that for a few minutes, sitting on the edge of the little bed wishing more than anything to back to the time when all her children had been this small and free of grief. 

“Mother?” Donnel was standing stiffly just outside the doorway, his face half in shadow. Catelyn jumped a little, then shushed him as she slowly stood up and exited the nursery, closing the door quietly behind her.

“You should be abed yourself,” she said quietly, although she felt somewhat ridiculous. Donnel had not been here for her to order to bed in years, and what was more, he was not a child anymore.

“I have to- I have to tell you something,” he said, swallowing hard, and looking ill at ease.

Catelyn stiffened, shaking her head, “Donnel- gods above, please do not tell me anything-,” Her mind was racing. Had he sired a bastard on a girl back at court? Was there another raven from King’s Landing?

“It’s about Father,” he said swiftly. “Before he… before he fell ill.”

She stared at him for a moment, fighting back the urge to snap at her eldest. What had he been thinking, keeping something like this from her for so long? “In my rooms, quickly,” she said sternly, massaging the bridge of her nose as Donnel reluctantly followed her down the hall and into the lady’s chambers of the Eyrie, where a maid was stoking the fire. Catelyn dismissed her more curtly than she would have liked, and soon as the girl’s hurried footsteps faded down the corridor, burst out with, “What haven’t you told me?”.

“I- before Father died, he was spending a lot of time with Lord Stannis,” Donnel blurted, gaze dropping from her to the floor. “I- I don’t know why, but- whatever it was, it must have been important, to concern the king’s brother? They would go out into the city or hole up in Father’s solar, and when Father… when Father died, Lord Stannis left for Dragonstone by dawn.”

“Stannis Baratheon?” Catelyn repeated incredulously. “What could he have been consulting with Stannis about?” She’d met Robert’s grim, humorless younger brother several times, and while she thought the man was probably just and certainly morally upright, she’d never liked him. Nothing pleased Stannis Baratheon, and it seemed likely that nothing ever would.

“I don’t know,” Donnel said helplessly, “Truly, Mother, I don’t, and I knew better than to ask Father, I just- I didn’t want to tell you-,”

“Gods be true, why wouldn’t you tell me?” Catelyn snapped. “I am- I am his wife, your mother, and you saw fit to keep me in the dark about this?”

“I didn’t want you to leave again,” he retorted guiltily, his face at once chastened and almost rebellious. “I knew once you found out you wouldn’t stop, that you would leave us, Mother, I can’t- I don’t know how to do any of this on my own-,”

“This changes everything,” she cut him off coldly. “I- If what you say is true, Donnel, then your father’s death- it may have been no accident.”

He paled. “You don’t think Lord Stannis-,”

Catelyn hesitated, before frowning. “No, I do not think him the sort of man to sink to… to sink to poison, but- I will have the truth of it from him, one way or another. And Maester Colemon- you will find him and tell him I needs speak with him, immediately, and then you will see yourself to your bed.”

“But Mother,” he protested weakly, and froze at the look on her face.

“Now, Donnel,” she almost hissed, and waited until he’d left the room to sink down onto the bed, head in her hands. She suddenly felt as though it were throbbing. Her son had spent the past few months lying to her by omission, her husband might have been murdered and it had something to do with Robert’s brother, and ever since she’d first seen Jon’s body, she’d felt as though she were locked into a dead plummet. Fish were not meant to fly, she’d thought when she’d wed Jon, and for years she’d denied the truth of it, but now her own words were coming back to haunt her.


	12. Chapter 12

Lysa had felt as though she were about to vomit from the moment the shouts went up that that the royal party could be seen approaching in the distance. She tried to distract herself by collecting the children, who were a mixture of excited and nervous, with a healthy dose of Northron suspicion thrown in for good measure.

“Lynisa, fix your cloak,” she hissed frantically at her eldest, whose fine gray-green gown had been muddied after a morning of playing with Summer, and helped the girl adjust the cloak so that it hid the faded stains. She loved her daughter, but while Lynisa was nowhere near as wild as Branda, she was hardly the sort of girl who worried over her clothes or her appearance. 

Still, with her chin raised proudly she looked every inch the Northron maid, and she turned her attention to the twins, who were bickering about something. “Enough,” she snapped, catching Branda’s hand as she raised it to swat at her brother. “Rickard, stop slouching, and Branda-,” she sighed despairingly over the girl’s mussed curls and dirty hands. 

Still, the girl was smiling broadly, and kept glancing expectantly towards the gates, and she didn’t have the heart to take her to task at the moment. “Behave, please,” she urged, before casting a critical eye over the other members of the household.

Benjen and Jonelle stood with their children; the eldest, Gilliane, was eleven going on twelve, and one of Lynisa’s dearest friends. Together, along with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, the four of them made up a little clan of sorts whenever they were all together at Winterfell, and Branda joined in with them often enough, when she tired of the boys. 

Gilliane was no great beauty, but she was a pretty girl, tall and thin, with the long Stark face and grey eyes, although her hair was a much lighter shade of brown, almost dark blonde. Lysa thought she fit in well between Lynisa and Branda, in that Gilliane was quieter than Branda, but more outgoing than Lynisa- above all, she was sensible, something that Lysa could appreciate. 

Her younger brothers, Bennard and Elric, were whispering back and forth to one another, thick as thieves, and extremely envious of their cousins’ wolf pups. Bennard was the same age as Rickard and Branda, and already lean and lanky for a boy of ten, and usually fighting back a grin of amusement. Elric was seven and looked almost identical to his older brother, aside from being slightly stockier and having more of a curl to his brown hair. He was a little more serious, but all in all, a sweet little boy who wanted to be a knight above all else.

Theon Greyjoy was nowhere to be seen, which she was glad of- he wasn’t a boy any longer, but a man, and she would not parade a grown man like he was still a child hostage in front of Robert Baratheon. Nevermind the fact that she did not trust Greyjoy to show much respect towards his king.

And then there was Jon Snow, who stood tall and proud, although slightly apart from the main family, obviously preparing himself for the scrutiny of the king and queen. Lysa felt a familiar flash of panic, but tried to soothe herself. Jon looked all Stark, thank the gods. There was nothing of Rhaegar to him, not that she’d ever seen- at least not in appearance. She gave him a little nod, and he offered a small smile in return, just before the first riders began to rush in through Winterfell’s gates.

The meeting between the two families, Lysa thought later, went about as well as could be expected. Robert was jovial and spiteful of his wife, as usual. Cersei was all cold smiles and posturing, as usual. The Kingslayer went on with his usual japes and the Imp looked as calculating as ever. Lions, everywhere she looked, shaking their golden manes and showing their teeth.

Lysa trusted none of them, but was as polite and deferential as was expected of her, and tried to be kind to the children, although she did not like the derision in the eyes of the heir, Joffrey. The younger two, however, were very sweet, and she hoped that Myrcella and Branda might become close- it would do her some good, to have the younger girl rub off on her. She did not have high hopes of Rickard befriending Tommen, but perhaps he and Elric would get along. 

Robert insisted Ned take him down into the crypts, which Lysa had been bracing for, and she tried not to feel as though she were threatened in her own home when it was left for her to play hostess. She did not think Cersei Lannister would lower herself to sew with the Lady of Winterfell, unless she had suddenly developed a sense of humility over the past seven or so years.

The feast, however, went about as well as could be expected, although she noted that Jon had vanished at some point during it and grew concerned. However, he returned eventually, and she could not make out the look on his face from the distance, so she returned to trying in vain to make polite conversation with the queen, whom seemed less and less enthused (not that she had been very to begin with) by the hour.

And then, finally, came word from Cat. Lysa and Ned had just finished in bed, and he’d gotten up to throw open a window, while she curled up in the warmth of his spot in the bed, she smiled, slightly heady from their lovemaking, even if they’d been wed fifteen years now. 

They were not so old that they could not still enjoy one another, after all- plenty of women her age could still bear children. But she refused to dwell on that, not anymore, not after those difficult early years. They had had their children, and they were good, and strong, and she would die a thousand times before she ever let anything evil touch them in this world.

She admired Ned’s form for a few minutes in the dim light from the hearth and the braziers, and was about to make some lighthearted comment about him not being able to stand the heat as soon as they were done, every time, when he turned back to her, and she saw the look on his face.

“Lysa, you know I must refuse him.”

“Did you put the matter of Gilliane and Joffrey to him?” she asked pointedly. Robert had asked after Branda’s hand, but neither she nor Ned were willing to betroth a girl of ten who would likely not even flower for several more years, and Lysa had no wish for her daughter to be queen. Maybe, once, she would have been thrilled at the notion, but she knew better now. 

Besides, Branda was… she could stand to learn to be a bit more refined and ladylike, but Lysa could see nothing in common between her younger daughter and a boy like Joffrey. Gilliane was the more suitable choice, even if she was a Stark of Moat Cailin, not of Winterfell. And Robert seemed determined to have a Stark bride for his heir, and Lysa was not willing to risk Cersei’s fury by suggesting a match between Rickard and Myrcella instead.

“He was disappointed, but he seemed agreeable to it,” Ned said shortly. “The queen will not be pleased, I’ll wager, but Robert is used to having his way. And Benjen and Jonelle are not opposed to it. They think Gilliane would do well in the South, and to be queen…”

“It is a great honor,” Lysa agreed, and then came the knock at the door that changed it all.

Her elder sister’s message was cleverly coded, but even though it had been many years since Lysa’s childhood at Riverrun, she still remembered their secret language. And she still remembered that it had been shared with no one else, not their father or uncle, not Edmure, and not even Petyr. It had belonged to her and Cat alone.

The letter said, simply put, that Catelyn believed there was a very good chance that Jon Arryn had been murdered, and that it was the work of the Lannisters, Petyr Baelish, or both. She urged caution, and said she was going to Dragonstone, to Stannis Baratheon, whom she believed might know something about it. He had not replied to her ravens.

There could be no more debate over Robert’s offer of the Hand. Lysa did not want to go South, but she could not leave Catelyn without allies and hide in the North. If any of this was discovered, her sister and her Arryn nephews and nieces could all be in danger as well. They had to help her, and they had to discover the truth of the matter- why Jon Arryn had been killed, if that was what had happened, and who the real culprit was.

Which was why when Ned informed her, seriously, that she would stay, she was aghast, and had half a mind to send Maester Luwin out so she could properly raise her voice, but he held up his hand and cut her off before she could get started.

“You must rule. Rickard is a boy. Summer is coming to an end, and all I can do is pray that he is near a man grown by the time autumn passes as well.”

“I cannot-,”

“You can and you will,” he snapped in his Lord’s Voice, not the one he usually used with his wife or children. “Fifteen years you have sat by my side, and now I leave the North to you and the council. Maester Luwin and Benjen will be here for you. Do not disparage yourself; you are not a foolish woman, and I know you will always do what is just.”

She felt utterly helpless, as she had when she’d first been informed of Jon Snow’s existence, or when Ned had told her the truth of the boy’s parentage. Ned had been here, he had always been here, with her, only leaving her for the Greyjoy Rebellion, and the idea of him going somewhere where she could not follow… Her mouth open and shut like a fish’s, and she glanced beseechingly at the old maester, who simply nodded somberly, obvious in agreement with his lord.

“Gilliane must still go South to wed Joffrey,” Ned continued harshly, as if he were fighting within himself as well, “So that our loyalties cannot be questioned. Lynisa will remain here, she will be fifteen on her next name day, and she’ll be wed to Domeric Bolton before winter arrives. But I must take Branda, as a companion for Gill, and likely Elric as well- Rickard loathes Joffrey already, that much is obvious, and we need a Stark boy to bridge the gap there.”

“You cannot separate the twins,” she protested, “And to leave Benjen and Jonelle with just one of their children-,”

“The children will be protected,” Ned retorted, hands coming to rest on her arms as he pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head like a child. “No harm will come to any of them, I will swear it to you and to my brother.”

Lysa believed him- how could she not? But that did not mean she liked it. The lone wolf dies, she thought desperately, but the pack survives. Now the pack was splitting in half, and she feared greatly for the fate of the half headed to King’s Landing. And how could a fish lead the wolves that remained in the North?

“And Jon?” she asked after a moment of tense silence. “Eddard, you cannot bring him with you-,”

“He will stay here,” Ned said decisively. “I know he would do anything to keep Lynisa and Rickard safe, and it will be good for him to take on the responsibilities of a man.”

“Very well,” said Lysa shakily, and then couldn’t hold back her tears any longer, at the thought of what she would tell the children. Branda would feel as though she were being punished and sent away, she feared, and how could she ever look Jonelle in the eyes again if something were to happen to Gilliane or Elric? She was as devoted to her children as Lysa was to her’s. 

Lysa had promised herself, and her children, silently, with every prayer and song, that they would always be together, that they would be happy, but now she was not so sure. Her goodbrother had been murdered, her sister was in grave danger, and she was about to send half of her family into the lion’s den. 

She got little sleep that night, even after Maester Luwin had been sent away and Ned had closed most of the windows he’d opened. The room no longer felt warm and comforting. Rather, it felt ice cold, and the wind seemed to blow harder than usual, as if searching for a way in. Lysa closed her eyes and tried to go back, in her mind, but it was impossible. Nothing was ever going to return to the way it had been before Robert Baratheon’s arrival. She knew that in her heart.


End file.
